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DRAMATIC 


AND 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS, 


BY 

GEORGE  MACDONALD,  LL.D., 

AUTHOR    or    "WILFKID    CUJIBEKIMEDK,"    ETC, 


I. 

^YITHIX  AND  WITHOUT. 

II. 
THE  HIDDEN  LIFE  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


NEW  YORK : 
SCRIBXER,  ARAfSTROXG  AND  COArPAXY 


C£a/  if 


WITHIN  AND  WITHOUT. 


BY 

GEORGE  MACDONALD,  LL.  D. 

AUTHOR    OF    "  WILFRID    CUMBERMEDE,"    "  ANNALS    OF    A    QUIET    NEIGHBOR- 
HOOD,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK: 
SCRIBNER,  ARMSTRONG,  &  CO. 


PR  H'T'cy 

7 


V 


TO 

L.  p.  M.  D. 

Receive  thine  own  ;  for  I  and  it  are  thine. 
Thou  know'st  its  story  ;  how  for  forty  days  — 
Weary  with  sickness  and  with  social  haze, 

(After  thy  hands  and  Hps  with  love  divine 

Had  somewhat  soothed  me,  made  the  glory  shine, 
Though  with  a  watery  lustre,)  more  delays 
Of  blessedness  forbid —  I  took  my  ways 

Into  a  sohtude,  Invention's  mine  ; 

There  thought  and  wrote  afar,  and  yet  with  thee. 

Those  days  gone  past,  I  came,  and  brought  a  book  ; 

My  child,  developed  since  in  limb  and  look. 
It  came  in  shining  vapors  from  the  sea. 
And  in  thy  stead  sung  low  sweet  songs  to  me, 

When  the  red  life-blood  labor  would  not  brook. 

G.  M.  D. 
May,  1855. 


m5669'15 


WITHIN    AND   WITHOUT. 
PART  I. 

Go  thou  into  thy  closet ;  shut  thy  door ; 

And  pray  to  Him  in  secret :  He  will  hear. 

But  think  not  thou,  by  one  wild  bound,  to  clear 
The  numberless  ascensions,  more  and  more, 
Of  starry  stairs  that  must  be  climbed,  before 

Thou  comest  to  the  Father's  likeness  near, 

And  bendest  down  to  kiss  the  feet  so  dear 
That,  step  by  step,  their  mounting  flights  passed  o'er. 

Be  thou  content  if  on  thy  weary  need 
There  falls  a  sense  of  showers  and  of  the  spring  ; 
A  hope  that  makes  it  possible  to  fling 

Sickness  aside,  and  go  and  do  the  deed  ; 

For  highest  aspiration  will  not  lead 
Unto  the  calm  beyond  all  questioning. 


PART  I. 

Scene  I.  —  A  cell  in  a  convent.    Julian  alone. 

Julian.      "F7  VENING  again,  slow  creeping  like  a 
-'--'         death! 
And  the  red  sunbeams  fading  from  the  wall, 
On  which  they  flung  a  sky,  with  streaks  and  bars. 
Of  the  poor  window-pane  that  let  them  in. 
For  clouds  and  shadings  of  the  mimic  heaven ! 
Soul  of  my  cell,  they  part,  no  more  to  come. 
But  what  is  light  to  me,  while  I  am  dark  ! 
And  yet  they  strangely  draw  me,  those  fainfhues, 
Reflected  flushes  from  the  Evening's  face, 
Which  as  a  bride,  with  glowing  arms  outstretched, 
Takes  to  her  blushing  heaven  him  who  has  left 
His  chamber  in  the  dim  deserted  east. 
Through  walls  and  hills  I  see  it !     The  rosy  sea  ! 
The  radiant  head  half- sunk !    A  pool  of  light. 
As  the  blue  globe  had  by  a  blow  been  broken, 
And  the  insphered  glory  bubbled  forth  ! 


10  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  Part  I. 

Or  the  sun  were  a  splendid  water-bird. 
That  flying  furrowed  with  its  golden  feet 
A  flashing  wake  over  the  waves,  and  home  ! 

Lo  there  ! Alas,  the  dull  blank  wall !  —  High  up, 

The  window-pane  a  dead  gra}^  eye  !     And  night 

Come  on  me  like  a  thief! 'Tis  best ;  the  sun 

Has  always  made  me  sad.     I'll  go  and  pray  : 
The  terror  of  the  night  begins  with  prayer. 

( Vesper  bell.)  Call  them  that  need  thee  ;  I  need  not 
thy  summons  ; 
My  knees  would  not  so  pain  me  when  I  kneel, 
If  only  at  thy  voice  my  prayer  awoke. 
I  will  not  to  the  chapel.     When  I  find  Him, 
Then  will  I  praise  Him  from  the  heights  of  peace  ; 
But  now  my  soul  is  as  a  speck  of  life 
Cast  on  the  deserts  of  eternity ; 
A  hungering  and  a  thirsting,  nothing  more, 
I  am  as  a  child  new-born,  its  mother  dead, 
Its  father  far  away  beyond  the  seas. 
Bhndly  I  stretch  my  arms  and  seek  for  him  : 
He  goeth  by  me,  and  I  see  him  not. 
I  cry  to  him  :  as  if  I  sprinkled  ashes. 
My  prayers  fall  back  in  dust  upon  my  soul. 


Scene  I.  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  II 

{Choir  and  organ-music.)    I  bless  you,  sweet  sounds, 
for  your  visiting. 
What  friends  I  have  !     Prismatic  harmonies 
Have  just  departed  in  the  sun's  bright  car, 
And  fair,  convolved  sounds  troop  in  to  me, 
Stealing  my  soul  with  faint  deliciousness. 
Would  they  took  shapes  !    What  levees  I  should  hold  1 
How  should  my  cell  be  filled  with  wavering  forms  ! 
Louder  they  grow,  each  swelling  higher,  higher ; 
Trembling  and  hesitating  to  float  off. 
As  bright  air-bubbles  linger,  that  a  boy 
Blows,  with  their  interchanging,  wood-dove  hues, 
Just  throbbing  to  their  flight,  like  them  to  die. 
—  Gone  now  !     Gone  to  the  Hades  of  dead  loves  ! 

Is  it  for  this  that  I  have  left  the  world  ? 
Left  what,  poor  fool  ?     Is  this,  then,  all  that  comes 
Of  that  night  when  the  closing  door  fell  dumb 
On  music  and  on  voices,  and  I  went 
Forth  from  the  ordered  tumult  of  the  dance, 
Under  the  clear  cope  of  the  moonless  night, 
Wandering  away  without  the  city-walls, 
Between  the  silent  meadows  and  the  stars. 
Till  something  woke  in  me,  and  moved  my  spirit, 


12  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  I. 

And  of  .themselves  my  thoughts  turned  towards  God  ; 

When  straight  within  my  soul  I  felt  as  if 

An  eye  was  opened ;  but  I  knew  not  whether 

'Twas  I  that  saw,  or  God  that  looked  on  me  ? 

It  closed  again,  and  darkness  fell  ;  but  not 

To  hide  the  memory ;  that,  in  many  failings 

Of  spirit  and  of  purpose,  still  returned  ; 

And  I  came  here  at  last  to  search  for  God. 

Would  I  could  find  Him!     O,  what  quiet  content 

Would  then  absorb  my  heart,  yet  leave  it  free. 

A  knock  at  the  door.     Enter  Brother  Robert  with  a  light. 

Robert.    Head  in  your  hands  as  usual  !    You  will  fret 
Your  life  out,  sitting  moping  in  the  dark. 
Come,  it  is  supper-time. 

yulian.  I  will  not  sup  to-night. 

Robert.  Not  sup  !     You'll  never  live  to  be  a  saint. 

yidian.    A  saint !     The  devil  has  me  by  the  heel. 

Robert.  So  has  he  all  saints  ;  as  a  boy  his  kite, 
Which  ever  struggles  higher  for  his  hold. 
It  is  a  silly  devil  to  gripe  so  hard  ;  — 
He  should  let  go  his  hold,  and  then  he  has  you. 
If  you'll  not  come,  I'll  leave  the  light  with  you. 
Hark  to  the  chorus  !     Brother  Stephen  sings. 


Scene  I.  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  1 3 

Chorus.     Always  merry,  and  never  dnink, 
Thafs  the  life  of  the  jolly  monk. 

•SONG. 

They  say  the  first  monks  were  lonely  men, 
Praying  each  m  his  lonely  den, 
Rising  up  to  kneel  again. 
Each  a  skinny  male  Magdalen, 
Peeping  scared  from  out  his  hole 
Like  a  burrowing  rabbit  or  a  mole ; 
But  years  ring  changes  as  they  roll. 

Cho.     JVow  always  merry,  &=€. 

When  the  moon  gets  up  with  her  big  round  face, 

Like  Mistress  Poll's  in  the  market-place, 

Down  to  the  village  below  we  pace  ;  — 

We  know  a  supper  that  wants  a  grace  : 

Past  the  curtseying  women  we  go. 

Past  the  smithy,  all  a-glow, 

To  the  snug  little  houses  at  top  of  the  row- 

Cho.     For  always  merry,  dj^c. 

And  there  we  find,  amongst  the  ale, 

The  fragments  of  a  floating  tale  : 

To  piece  them  together  we  never  fail ; 

And  we  fit  them  rightly,  I'll  go  bail. 

And  so  we  have  them  all  in  hand, 

The  lads  and  lasses  throughout  the  land. 

And  we  are  the  masters,  —  you  understand  ? 

Cho.     So  always  merry,  &'c. 

Last  night  we  had  such  a  game  of  play 
With  the  nephews  and  nieces  over  the  way, 


14  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  Part  I 

All  for  the  gold  that  belonged  to  the  day 

That  lies  in  lead  till  the  judgment-day. 

The  old  man's  soul  they'd  leave  in  the  lurch  ; 

But  we  saved  her  share  for  old  Mamma  Church, 

How  they  eyed  the  bag  as  they  stood  in  the  porch  ! 

Cho.     O  !  always  merry,  and  never  drunk, 
That's  the  life  of  the  jolly  monk  ! 

Robert.  The  song  is  hardly  to  your  taste,  I  see. 
Where  shall  I  set  the  light  ? 

yulian.  I  do  not  need  it. 

Robert.     Come,  come  !     The  dark  is  a  hot-bed  for 
fancies. 
I  wish  you  were  at  table,  were  it  only 
To  stop  the  talking  of  the  men  about  you. 
You  in  the  dark  are  talked  of  in  the  light. 

jfulian.  Well,  brother,  let  them  talk  ;  it  hurts  not  me. 

Robert.    No  ;  but  it  hurts  your  friend  to  hear  them 
say, 
You  would  be  thought  a  saint  without  the  trouble. 
You  do  no  penance  that  they  can  discover ; 
You  keep  shut  up,  say  some,  eating  your  heart, 
Possessed  with  a  bad  conscience,  the  worst  demon. 
You  are  a  prince,  say  others,  hiding  here, 
Till  circumstance  that  bound  you,  set  you  free. 


Scene  I.  WITHIN    AND    WITHOUT.  1 5 

To-night,  there  are  some  whispers  of  a  lady 
That  would  refuse  your  love. 

Julian.  Aye  !  What  of  her  ? 

Robert.    I  hear  no  more  than  so  ;  and  that  you  came 
To  seek  the  next  best  service  you  could  find  : 
Turned  from  the  lady's  door,  and  knocked  at  God's. 

jfuliafi.    One  part  at  least  is  true  :  I  knock  at  God's  ; 
He  has  not  yet  been  pleased  to  let  me  in. 
As  for  the  lady  —  that  is  —  so  far  true, 
But  matters  little.     Had  I  less  to  do, 
This  talking  might  annoy  me  ;  as  it  is, 
Why,  let  the  wind  set  there,  if  it  pleases  it ; 
I  keep  in-doors. 

Robert.  Gloomy  as  usual,  brother  ! 

Brooding  on  fancy's  eggs.     God  did  not  send 
The  light  that  all  day  long  gladdened  the  earth, 
Flashed  from  the  snowy  peak,  and  on  the  spire 
Transformed  the  weathercock  into  a  star. 
That  you  should  gloom  within  stone  walls  all  day. 
At  dawn  to-morrow,  take  your  staff,  and  come  : 
We  will  salute  the  breezes,  as  they  rise 
And  leave  their  lofty  beds,  laden  with  odors 
Of  melting  snow,  and  fresh  damp  earth,  and  moss  ; 


l6  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  I. 

Imprisoned  spirits,  which  life-waking  Spring 
Lets  forth  in  vapor  through  the  genial  air. 
Come,  we  will  see  the  sunrise  ;  watch  the  light 
Leap  from  his  chariot  on  the  loftiest  peak, 
And  thence  descend  triumpha;nt,  step  by  step, 
The  stairway  of  the  hills.     Free  air  and  action 
Will  soon  dispel  these  vapors  of  the  brain. 

yulian.    My  friend,  if  one  should  tell   a  homeless 
boy, 
"  There  is  your  father's  house  :  go  in  and  rest ;  " 
Through  every  open  room  the  child  would  go, 
Timidly  looking  for  the  friendly  eye  ; 
Fearing  to  touch,  scarce  daring  even  to  wonder 
At  what  he  saw,  until  he  found  his  sire. 
But  gathered  to  his  bosom,  straight  he  is 
The  heir  of  all ;  he  knows  it  'midst  his  tears. 
And  so  with  me  :  not  having  seen  Him  3^et, 
The  light  rests  on  me  with  a  heaviness  ; 
All  beauty  wears  to  me  a  doubtful  look ; 
A  voice  is  in  the  wind  I  do  not  know  ; 
A  meaning  on  the  face  of  the  high  hills 
Whose  utterance  I  cannot  comprehend. 
A  something  is  behind  them :  that  is  God. 


Scene  I.  WITHIN   AND  WITHOUT.  17 

These  are  his  words,  I  doubt  not,  lan^age  strange ; 
These  are  the  expressions  of  his  shining  thoughts; 
And  He  is  present,  but  I  find  Him  not. 
I  have  not  yet  been  held  close  to  his  heart. 
Once  in  his  inner  room,  and  by  his  eyes 
Acknowledged,  I  shall  find  my  home  in  these, 
'Mid  sights  familiar  as  a  mother's  smiles, 
And  sounds  that  never  lose  love's  mysteiy.     • 
Then  they  will  comfort  me.     Lead  me  to  Him ! 

Robert  {pointing  to  the  Crucifix  in  a  recess).     See, 

there  is  God  revealed  in  human  form  ! 
Julian  {kneeling  and  crossing).     Alas,  my  friend  !  — 

revealed  —  but  as  in  nature  : 
I  see  the  man  ;  I  cannot  find  the  God. 
I  know  his  voice  is  in  the  wind,  his  presence 
Is  in  the  Christ.     The  wind  blows  where  it  listeth  ; 
And  there  stands   Manhood :    and  the  God  is  there, 
Not  here,  not  here. 

[Pointing  to  his  bosom.     Seeing  Robert's  bewildered  look, 
and  changing  his  tone. 

You  understand  me  not. 
Without  my  need,  you  cannot  know  my  want. 
You  will  all  night  be  puzzling  to  determine 


1 8   '  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  Tart  I. 

With  which  of  the  old  heretics  to  class  me. 

But  you  are  honest ;  will  not  rouse  the  ciy 

Against  me.     I  am  honest.     For  the  proof, 

Such  as  will  satisfy  a  monk,  look  here  ! 

Is  this  a  smooth  belt,  brother .?     And  look  here  ! 

Did  one  week's  scourging  seam  my  side  like  that .? 

1  am  ashamed  to  speak  thus,  and  to  show 

Things  rightly  hidden  ;  but  in  my  heart  I  love  you, 

And  cannot  bear  but  you  should  think  me  true. 

Let  it  excuse  my  foolishness.     They  talk 

Of  penance !     Let  them  talk  when  they  have  tried, 

And  found  it  has  not  even  unbarred  heaven's  gate, 

Let  out  one  stray  beam  of  its  living  light. 

Or  humbled  that  proud  /  that  knows  not  God. 

You  are  my  friend :  —  if  you  should  find  this  cell 

Empty  some  morning,  do  not  be  afraid 

That  any  ill  has  happened. 

Robert.  Well,  perhaps 

'Twere  better  you  should  go.     I  cannot  help  you, 
But  I  can  keep  your  secret.    God  be  with  you.     S^Goes. 

Julian.    Amen.  —  A  good    man  ;    but   he  has   not 
waked, 
And  seen  the  Sphinx's  stony  eyes  fixed  on  him. 


Scene  I.  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  I9 

God  veils  it.     He  believes  in  Christ,  he  thinks  ; 

And  so  he  does,  as  possible  for  him. 

How  he  will  wonder  when  he  looks  for  heaven  ! 

He  thinks  me  an  enthusiast,  because 

I  seek  to  know  God,  and  to  hear  his  voice 

Talk  to  my  heart  in  silence  ;  as  of  old 

The  Hebrew  king,  when,  still,  upon  his  bed, 

Pie  lay  communing  with  his  heart ;  and  God 

With  strength  in  his  soul  did  strengthen  him,  until 

In  his  light  he  saw  light.     God  speaks  to  men. 

My  soul  leans  towards  him  ;  stretches  forth  its  arms, 

And  waits  expectant.     Speak  to  me,  my  God  ; 

And  let  me  know  the  living  Father  cares 

For  me,  even  me  ;  for  this  one  of  his  children.  — • 

Hast  thou  no  word  for  me  ?     I  am  thy  thought. 

God,  let  thy  mighty  heart  beat  into  mine, 

And  let  mine  answer  as  a  pulse  to  thine. 

See,  I  am  low  ;  yea,  very  low ;  but  thou 

Art  high,  and  thou  canst  lift  me  up  to  thee. 

I  am  a  child,  a  fool  before  thee,  God  ; 

But  thou  hast  made  my  weakness  as  my  strength. 

I  am  an  emptiness  for  thee  to  fill ; 

My  soul,  a  cavern  for  thy  sea.     I  lie 


20  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  Part  I 

Diffused,  abandoning  myself  to  thee 

1  will  look  up,  if  life  should  fail  in  looking. 

Ah  me  !     A  stream  cut  from  my  parent-spring  ! 
Ah  me  !     A  life  lost  from  its  father-life  ! 


Scene  II.  —  The  refectory.  The  monks  at  table.  A  bi.zz  of  con- 
versation. Robert  enters^  wiping  his  forehead^  as  if  he  had 
just  cojue  in. 

Stephen   {speaking  across   the   table).    You    see,  my 
friend,  it  will  not  stand  to  logic ; 
Or,  if  you  like  it  better,  stand  to  reason  ; 
For  in  this  doctrine  is  involved  a  cause 
Which  for  its  very  being  doth  depend 
Upon  its  own  effect.     For,  don't  you  see, 
He  tells  me  to  have  faith  and  I  shall  live  ? 
Have  faith  for  what.?     Why,  plainly,  that  I  shall 
Be  saved  from  hell  by  Him,  and  ta'en  to  heaven  ; 
What  is  salvation  else  ?     If  I  believe. 
Then  He  will  save  me.  .  .  But  this  his  will 
Has  no  existence  till  that  I  believe  ; 
So  there  is  nothing  for  my  faith  to  rest  on. 
No  object  for  belief.     How  can  I  trust 
In  that  which  is  not  ?     Send  the  salad,  Cosmo. 


Scene  II.  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  21 

Besides,  'twould  be  a  plenary  indulgence  ; 
To  all  intents  save  one,  most  plenary  — 
And  that  the  Church's  coffer.     'Tis  absurd. 

Monk.  'Tis  most  absurd,  as  you  have  clearly  shown. 
And  yet  I  fear  some  of  us  have  been  nibbling 
At  this  same  heresy.     'Twere  well  that  one 
Should  find  it  poison.     I  have  no  pique  at  him  — 
But  there's  that  Julian  — 

Stephen.  Hush  !  speak  lower,  friend. 

Two  Monks  further  down  the  table —  m  a  low  tone. 

ist  Mojik.  Where  did  you  find  her? 

2d  Mo7ik.  She  was  taken  ill 

At  the  Star-in-the-East.     I  chanced  to  pass  that  way, 
And  so  they  called  me  in.     I  found  her  dying. 
But  ere  she  would  confess  and  make  her  peace, 
She  begged  to  know  if  I  had  ever  seen 
About  this  neighborhood,  a  tall  dark  man. 
Moody  and  silent,  with  a  little  stoop 
As  if  his  eyes  were  heavy  for  his  shoulder. 
And  a  strange  look  of  mingled  youth  and  age,  — 

\st  Monk.    Julian,  by 

2d  Monk.  'St — no  names  !     I  had  not  seen  him. 
I  saw  the  death- mist  gathering  in  her  eye. 


23  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  I. 

And  urged  her  to  proceed  ;  and  she  began  ; 
But  went  not  far  before  delirium  came, 
With  endless  repetitions,  hurryings  forward, 
Recoverings  like  a  hound  at  fault.     The  past 
Was  running  riot  in  her  conquered  brain  ; 
And  there,  with  doors  thrown  wide,  a  motley  group 
Held  carnival  ;  went  freely  out  and  in. 
Meeting  and  jostling.     But  withal  it  seemed 
As  some  confused  tragedy  went  on  ; 
Till  suddenly  the  lights  sunk  out ;  the  pageant 
Went  like  a  ghost ;  the  chambers  of  her  brain 
Lay  desolate  and  silent.     I  can  gather 
This  much,  and  nothing  more.     This  Julian 
Is  one  of  some  distinction  ;  probably  rich. 
And  titled  Count.     He  had  a  love-affair, 
In  good-boy,  layman  fashion,  seemingly. 
Give  me  the  woman  ;  love  is  troublesome. 
She  loved  him  too,  but  false  play  came  between. 
And  used  this  woman  for  her  minister ; 
Who  never  would  have  peached,  but  for  a  witness 
Hidden  behind  some  curtains  in  her  heart 
Of  which   she   did   not   know.     That  same,   her  con- 
science, 


Scene  II.  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  23 

Has  waked  and  blabbed  so  far ;  but  must  conclude 
Its  story  to  some  double-ghostly  father, 
For  she  is  ghostly  penitent  by  this. 
Our  consciences  will  play  us  no  such  tricks  ; 
They  are  the  Church's,  not  our  own.     We  must 
Keep  this  small  matter  secret.     If  it  should 
Come  to  his  ears,  he'll  soon  bid  us  good-by  — 
A  lady's  love  before  ten  heavenly  crowns  ! 
And  so  the  world  will  have  the  benefit 
Of  the  said  wealth  of  his,  if  such  there  be. 
I  have  told  you,  old  Godfrey  ;  I  tell  none  else 
Until  our  Abbot  comes. 

ist  Monk.  That  is  to-morrow. 

Another  group  near  the  bottojn  of  the  table,  in  which  is  Robert. 

\st  Monk.    'Tis  very  clear  there's  something  wrong 
with  him. 
Have  you  not  marked  that  look,  half  scorn,  half  pity, 
Which  passes  like  a  thought  across  his  face, 
When  he  has  listened,  seeming  scarce  to  listen, 
A  while  to  our  discourse  ?  —  he  never  joins. 

2d  Monk.     I  know  quite  well.     I  stood  beside  him 
once. 
Some  of  the  brethren  near  ;  Stephen  was  talking. 


24  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  I. 

He  chanced  to  say  the  words,  Our  Holy  Faith. 
"  Faith  indeed  !  poor  fools  !  "  fell  from  his  lips, 
Half-muttered,  and  half-whispered,  as  the  words 
Had  wandered  forth  unbidden.     I  am  sure 
He  is  an  atheist  at  the  least. 

•^d  Mo?ik  (j> ale-faced  and  large  eyed).    And  I 
Fear  he  is  something  worse.     I  had  a  trance 
In  which  the  devil  tempted  me  :  the  shape 
Was  Julian's  to  the  very  finger-nails. 
Non  nobis,  Domine  I  I  overcame. 
I  am  sure  of  one  thing  —  music  tortures  him : 
I  saw  him  once,  amidst  the  Gloria  Patri, 
When  the  whole  chapel  trembled  in  the  sound. 
Rise  slowly  as  in  ecstasy  of  pain. 
And  stretch  his  arms  abroad,  and  clasp  his  hands, 
Then  slowly,  faintingly,  sink  on  his  knees. 

2d  Monk:     He  does  not  know  his  rubric  ;  stands 
when  others 
Are  kneeling  round  him.     I  have  seen  him  twice 
With  his  missal  upside  down. 

^th  Mo7ik  {plethoric  and  husky).     He  blew  his  nose 
Quite  loud  on  last  Annunciation-day, 
And  choked  our  Lady's  name  in  the  Abbot's  throat. 


Scene  III.  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  2$ 

Robert.    When  he  returns,  we  must  complain  ;  and 
beg 
He'll  take  such  measures  as  the  case  requires. 

Scene  III.  — Julian'' s  cell.  Aft  open  chest.  The  lantern  o?t  a  stool, 
its  candle  neaj'ly  burnt  otit,  JULIAN  lying  on  his  bed,  looking 
at  the  light. 

Julian.    And  so  all  growth  that  is  not  towards  God 
Is  growing  to  decay.     All  increase  gained 
Is  but  an  ugly,  earthy,  fungous  growth. 
'Tis  aspiration  as  that  wick  aspires, 
Towering  above  the  light  it  overcomes. 
But  ever  sinking  with  the  dying  flame. 

0  let  me  live,  if  but  a  daisy's  life  1 

No  toadstool  life-in-death,  no  efflorescence  ! 
Wherefore  wilt  thou  not  hear  me,  Lord  of  me? 
Have  I  no  claim  on  thee  ?    True,  I  have  none 
That  springs  from   me,  but  much  that   springs   from 

thee. 
Hast  thou  not  made  me  ?    Liv'st  thou  not  in  me  ? 

1  have  done  nought  for  thee,  am  but  a  want ; 

But  thou  who  art  rich  in  giving,  canst  give  claims ; 
And  this  same  need  of  thee,  which  thou  hast  given, 
Is  a  strong  claim  on  thee  to  give  thyself, 


26  WITHIN    AND    WITHOUT.  Paut  I. 

And  makes  me  bold  to  rise  and  come  to  thee. 
Through  all  my  sinning  thou  hast  not  recalled 
This  witness  of  thy  fatherhood,  to  plead 
For  thee  with  me,  and  for  thy  child  with  thee. 

Last  night,  as  now,  I  seemed  to  speak  with  Him  ; 
Or  was  it  but  my  heart  that  spoke  for  Him  ? 
"  Thou  mak'st  me  long,"  I  said,  "  therefore  wilt  give  ; 
My  longing  is  thy  promise,  O  my  God. 
If,  having  sinned,  I  thus  have  lost  the  claim, 
Why  doth  the  longing  yet  remain  with  me, 
And  make  me  bold  thus  to  besiege  thy  doors  ?  " 

I  thought  I  heard  an  answer  :  "  Question  on. 
Keep  on  thy  need  ;  it  is  the  bond  that  holds 
Thy  being  yet  to  mine.     I  give  it  thee, 
A  hungering  and  a  fainting  and  a  pain, 
Yet  a  God-blessing.    Thou  art  not  quite  dead 
"Wliile  this  pain  lives  in  thee.     I  bless  thee  with  it. 
Better  to  live  in  pain  than  die  that  death." 

So  I  will  live,  and  nourish  this  my  pain  ; 
For  oft  it  giveth  birth  unto  a  hope 
That  makes  me  strong  in  prayer.     He  knows  it  too. 
Softly  ril  walk  the  earth  ;  for  it  is  his. 
Not  mine  to  revel  in.     Content  I  wait. 


Scene  III.  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  2J 

A  still  small  voice  I  cannot  but  believe, 
Says  on  within  :  God  7<y/// reveal  himself. 

I  must  go  from  this  place.     I  cannot  rest. 
It  boots  not  staying.     A  desire  like  thirst 
Awakes  within  me,  or  a  new  child-heart, 
To  be  abroad  on  the  mysterious  earth, 
Out  with  the  moon  in  all  the  blowing  winds. 

'Tis  strange  that  dreams  of  her  should  come  again. 
For  many  months  I  had  not  seen  her  form, 
Save  phantom-like  on  dim  hills  of  the  past. 
Until  I  laid  me  down  an  hour  ago  j 
When  twice  through  the  dark  chamber,  full  of  eyes, 
The  dreamful  fact  passed  orderly  and  true. 
Once  more  I  see  the  house  ;  the  inward  blaze 
Of  the  glad  windows  half-quenched  in  the  moon  ; 
The  trees  that,  drooping,  murmured  to  the  wind, 
"  Ah  !  wake  me  not,"  which  left  them  to  their  sleep, 
All  save  the  poplar  :  it  was  full  of  joy. 
So  that  it  could  not  sleep,  but  trembled  on. 
Sudden  as  Aphrodite  from  the  sea. 
She  issued  radiant  from  the  pearly  night. 
It  took  me  half  with  fear  —  the  glimmer  and  gleam 
Of  her  white  festal  garments,  haloed  round 


28  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  I. 

AVith  denser  moonbeams.     On  she  came  —  and  there 

I  am  bewildered.     Something  I  remember 

Of  thoughts  that  choked  the  passages  of  sound, 

Hurrying  forth  without  their  pilot-words  ; 

Of  agony,  as  when  a  spirit  seeks 

In  vain  to  hold  communion  with  a  man  ; 

A  hand  that  would  and  would  not  stay  in  mine  ; 

A  gleaming  of  her  garments  far  away  ; 

And  then  I  know  not  what.     The  moon  was  low, 

When  from  the  earth  I  rose  ;  my  hair  was  wet, 

Dripping  with  dew  — • 

Enter  Robert  cautiously. 

Why,  how  now,  Robert  ? 

[Rising  on  his  elhozv. 

Robert  {glancing  at  the  chest).    I  see  ;  that's  well. 

Are  you  nearly  ready  ? 
yidian.    Why  ?    What's  the  matter  ? 
Robert.  You  must  go  this  night, 

If  you  would  go  at  all. 

Julian.  Why  must  I  go  ? 

Robe?'t  {turning  over  the  things  in  the  chest). 

Here,  put  this  coat  on.     Ah  !  take  that  thing  too. 
No  more  such  head-gear  !     Have  you  not  a  hat, 

\Going  to  the  chest  again. 


Scene  IV.  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  29 

Or  something  for  your  head  ?     There  's  such  a  hubbub 
Got  up  about  you  !     The  Abbot  comes  to-morrow. 
yulian.  Ah,  well !  I  need  not  ask.     I  know  it  all. 
Robert  No,  you  do  not.     Nor  is  there  time  to  tell 
you. 
Ten  minutes  more,  they  will  be  round  to  bar 
The  outer  doors  ;  and  then  — good-by,  poor  Julian  ! 
Julian  is  rapidly  changing  his  clothes. 
yulian.  Now    I    am    ready,    Robert.     Thank   you, 
friend. 
Farewell !  God  bless  you  !  We  shall  meet  again. 
Robert.  Farewell,  dear  friend  !    Keep  far  away  from 
this.  IGoes. 

Julian  follows  him  out  of  the  cell,  steps  along  a  narrow 
passage  to  a  door,  which  he  opens  slowly.  He  goes  out, 
and  closes  the  door  behind  him. 

Scene  IV.  —  Night.     The  court  of  a  cotmtry-inn.     The  Abbot, 
while  his  horse  is  brought  out. 

Abbot.  Now  for  a   shrine  to   house    this    rich  Ma 
donna. 
Within  the  holiest  of  the  holy  place  ! 
I'll  have  it  made  in  fashion  as  a  stable, 


30  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  1  .rt  I 

With  porphyry  pillars  to  a  marble  stall  ; 

And  odorous  woods,  shaved  fine  like  shaken  hay 

Shall  fill  the  silver  manger  for  a  bed, 

Whereon  shall  lie  the  ivory  Infant  carved 

By  shepherd  hands  on  plains  of  Bethlehem, 

And  o'er  him  shall  bend  the  Mother  mild, 

In  silken  white,  and  coroneted  gems. 

Glorious  !  But  wherewithal  I  see  not  now  — 

The  Mammon  of  unrighteousness  is  scant  ; 

Nor  know  I  any  nests  of  money-bees 

That  would  yield  half-contentment  to  my  need. 

Yet  will  I  trust  and  hope  ;  for  never  yet 

In  journeying  through  this  vale  of  tears  have  I 

Projected  pomp  that  did  not  blaze  anon.. 

Scene  V.  —  After  juidnight.     Julian  seated  under  a  tree  on  thi 
roadside. 

yulian.  So  lies  my  journey  —  on  into  the  dark. 
Without  my  will  I  find  myself  alive, 
And  must  go  forward.     Is  it  God  that  draws 
Magnetic  all  the  souls  unto  their  home. 
Travelling,  they  know  not  how,  but  unto  God  .<* 
It  matters  little  what  mav  come  to  me 


Scene  V.  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  3 1 

Of  outward  circumstance,  as  hunger,  thirst, 
Social  condition,  yea,  or  love  or  hate  ; 
But  what  shall  /  be,  fifty  summers  hence  ? 
My  life,  my  being,  all  that  meaneth  me^ 
Goes  darkling  forward  into  something  —  what  ? 

0  God,  thou  knowest.     It  is  not  my  care. 

If  thou  wert  less  than  truth,  or  less  than  love, 

It  were  a  fearful  thing  to  be  and  grow 

We  know  not  what.     My  God,  take  care  of  me. 

Pardon  and  swathe  me  in  an  infinite  love 

Pervading  and  inspiring  me,  thy  child. 

And  let  thy  own  design  in  me  work  on. 

Unfolding  the  ideal  man  in  me ! 

Which  being  greater  far  than  I  have  grown, 

1  cannot  comprehend.     I  am  thine,  not  mine. 
One  day,  completed  unto  thine  intent, 

I  shall  be  able  to  discourse  with  thee  ; 

For  thy  Idea,  gifted  with  a  self, 

Must  be  of  one  with  the  mind  where  it  sprang, 

Ana  fxt  to  talk  with  thee  about  thy  thoughts. 

Lead  me,  O  Father,  holding  by  thy  hand ; 

I  ask  not  whither,  for  it  must  be  on. 

This  road  will  lead  me  to  the  hills,  I  think  ; 

And  there  I  am  in  safety  and  at  home. 


32  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  I. 

Scene  VI.  —  The  Abbot'' s    room.     The  Abbot  and  one  of  the 
Monks. 

Abbot.  Did    she    say    jfiiUan  ?      Did    she    say   the 

name  ? 
Mofik.  She  did. 

Abbot  What  did  she  call  the  lady  ?     What  ? 
Monk.  I  could  not  hear. 

Abbot.  Nor  where  she  lived  ? 

Monk.  Nor  that. 

She  was  too  wild  for  leading  where  I  would. 

Abbot.  So.     Send   Julian.     One    thing  I  need    not 
ask  : 
You  have  kept  this  matter  secret  ? 

Monk.  Yes,  my  lord. 

Abbot.  Well,  go,  and  send  him  hither. 

[Monk  goes. 

Said  I  well, 
That  wish  would  burgeon  into  pomp  for  me  ? 
That  God  will  hear  his  own  elect  who  cry  ? 
Now  for  a  shrine,  so  glowing  in  the  means 
That  it  shall  draw  the  eyes  by  power  of  light ! 
So  tender  in  conceit,  that  it  shall  draw 


Scene  VI.  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  33 

The  heart  by  very  strength  of  delicateness, 
And  move  proud  thought  to  worship  ! 

I  must  act 
With  caution  now  ;  must  win  his  confidence  ; 
Question  him  of  the  secret  enemies 
That  fight  against  his  soul ;  and  lead  him  thus 
To  tell  me,  by  degrees,  his  history. 
So  shall  I  find  the  truth,  and  lay  foundation 
For  future  acts,  as  circumstance  requires. 
For  if  the  tale  be  true  that  he  is  rich. 
And 

Reenter  Monk  in  haste  and  terror. 
Monk.  He  's  gone,  my  lord  !     His  cell  is  empty. 
Abbot  {starting  up).  What !    You  are  crazy  !    Gone  ! 

His  cell  is  empty  ! 
Monk.  'Tis  true  as  death,  my  lord. 
Abbot.  Heaven  and  hell !  It  shall  not  be,  I  swear  ! 
There  is  a  plot  in  this  !     You,  sir,  have  lied  ! 
Some  one  is  in  his  confidence  — who  is  it? 
Go  rouse  the  convent.  [Monk^^^j. 

He  must  be  followed,  found. 
Hunt's  up,  friend  Julian  !     First  your  heels,  old  stag  ! 
But  by  and  by  your  horns,  and  then  your  side  ! 
3 


34  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  L 

'Tis  venison  much  too  good  for  the  world's  eating. 
I'll  go  and  sift  this  business  to  the  bran. 
Robert  and  him  I  have  sometimes  seen  together. 
God's  curse  !  it  shall  fare  ill  with  any  man 
That  has  connived  at  this,  if  I  detect  him. 

Scene  VII.  —  Afternoon.     The  mountains.     Julian. 
yulian.  Once  more  I  tread  thy  courts,  O   God  of 
heaven  ! 
I  lay  my  hand  upon  a  rock,  whose  peak 
Is  miles  away,  and  high  amidst  the  clouds. 
Perchance  I  touch  the  mountain  whose  blue  summit, 
With  the  fantastic  rock  upon  its  side. 
Stops  the  eye's  flight  from  that  high  chamber-window 
Where,  when  a  boy,  I  used  to  sit  and  gaze 
With  wondering  awe  upon  the  mighty  thing, 
Terribly  calm,  alone,  self-satisfied, 
The  hitherto  of  my  child  thoughts.     Beyond, 
A  sea  might  roar  around  its  base.     Beyond, 
Might  be  the  depths  of  the  unfathomed  space. 
This  the  earth's  bulwark  over  the  abyss. 
Upon  its  very  point  I  have  watched  a  star 
For  a  few  moments  crown  it  with  a  fire, 


Scene  VII.        WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  35 

As  of  an  incense-offering  that  blazed 
Upon  this  mighty  altar  high  uplift, 
And  then  float  up  the  pathless  waste  of  heaven. 
From  the  next  window  I  could  look  abroad 
Over  a  plain  unrolled,  which  God  had  painted 
With  trees,  and  meadow-grass,  and  a  large  river. 
Where  boats  went  to  and  fro  like  water-flies. 
In  white  and  green  ;  but  still  I  turned  to  look 
At  that  one  mount,  aspiring  o'er  its  fellows  : 
All  here  I  saw  —  I  knew  not  what  was  there. 

0  love  of  knowledge  and  of  mystery. 
Striving  together  in  the  heart  of  man  ! 

"  Tell  me,  and  let  me  know  ;  explain  the  thing."  — 
Then  when  the  courier-thoughts  have  circled  round : 
"  Alas  !  I  know  it  all  ;  its  charm  is  gone  !  " 
But  I  must  hasten ;  else  the  sun  will  set 
Before  I  reach  the  smoother  valley-road. 

1  wonder  if  my  old  nurse  lives  ;  or  has 
Eyes  left  to  know  me  with.     Surely,  I  think. 
Four  years  of  wandering  since  I  left  my  home, 
In  sunshine  and  in  snow,  in  ship  and  cell. 
Must  have  worn  changes  in  this  face  of  mine 
Sufficient  to  conceal  me,  if  I  will. 


36  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  I. 

Scene  VIII.  —  A  dungeon  in  the  7jionastery.     A  ray  of  the  moon 
on  the  floor.    Robert. 

Robert.  One  comfort  is,  he's  far  away  by  this. 
Perhaps  this  comfort  is  my  deepest  sin. 
Where  shall  I  find  a  daysman  in  this  strife 
Between  my  heart  and  holy  Church's  words  ? 
Is  not  the  law  of  kindness  from  God's  finger, 
Yea,  from  his  heart,  on  mine  ?     But  then  we  must 
Deny  ourselves  ;  and  impulses  must  yield, 
Be  subject  to  the  written  law  of  words  ; 
Impulses  made,  made  strong,  that  we  might  have 
Within  the  temple's  court  live  things  to  bring 
And  slay  upon  his  altar ;  that  we  may. 
By  this  hard  penance  of  the  heart  and  soul, 
Become  the  slaves  of  Christ.  —  I  have  done  wrong ; 
I  ought  not  to  have  let  poor  Julian  go. 
And  yet  that  light  upon  the  floor  says,  yes  — 
Christ  would  have  let  him  go.     It  seemed  a  good. 
Yes,  self-denying  deed,  to  risk  my  life 
That  he  might  be  in  peace.     Still  up  and  down 
The  balance  goes,  a  good  in  either  scale  ; 
Two  angels  giving  each  to  each  the  lie. 


Scene  VIII.       WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  37 

And  none  to  part  them  or  decide  the  question. 
But  still  the  words  come  down  the  heaviest 
Upon  my  conscience  as  that  scale  descends  ; 
But  that  may  be  because  they  hurt  me  more, 
Being  rough  strangers  in  the  feelings'  home. 
Would  God  forbid  us  to  do  what  is  right, 
Even  for  his  sake  "i     But  then  Julian's  life 
Belonged  to  God,  to  do  with  as  He  pleases. 
I  am  bewildered.     'Tis  as  God  and  God 
Commanded  different  things  in  different  tones. 
Ah  !  then,  the  tones  are  different :  which  is  likest 
God's  voice  ?     The  one  is  gentle,  loving,  kind, 
Like  Mary  singing  to  her  mangered  child  ; 
Tlie  other  like  a  self-restrained  tempest ; 
Like  —  ah,  alas  !  —  the  trumpet  on  Mount  Sinai, 
Louder  and  louder,  and  the  voice  of  words. 

0  for  some  light !     Would  they  would  kill  me  ;  then 

1  would  go  up,  close  up,  to  God's  own  throne, 
And  ask,  and  beg,  and  pray,  to  know  the  truth  ; 
And  He  would  slay  this  ghastly  contradiction. 

I  should  not  fear,  for  He  would  comfort  me. 
Because  I  am  perplexed,  and  long  to  know. 


38  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  Part  I. 

But  this  perplexity  may  be  my  sin, 
And  come  of  pride  that  will  not  yield  to  Him. 
O  for  one  word  from  God !  his  own,  and  fresh 
From  Him  to  me  !    Alas  !  what  shall  I  do  ? 


END    OF   PART  I. 


WITHIN  AND  WITHOUT. 

PART  II. 

Hark,  hark,  a  voice  amid  the  quiet  intense  ! 
It  is  thy  Duty  waiting  thee  without. 
Rise  from  thy  knees  in  hope,  the  half  of  doubt  ; 
A  hand  doth  pull  thee  —  it  is  Providence  ; 
Open  thy  door  straightway,  and  get  thee  hence  ; 
Go  forth  into  the  tumult  and  the  shout ; 
Work,  love,  with  workers,  lovers,  all  about : 
Of  noise  alone  is  born  the  inward  sense 
Of  silence  ;  and  from  action  springs  alone 
The  inward  knowledge  of  true  love  and  faith. 
Then,  weary,  go  thou  back  with  failing  breath, 
And  in  thy  chamber  make  thy  prayer  and  moan  ; 
One  day  upon  His  bosom,  all  thine  own, 
Thou  shalt  He  still,  embraced  in  holy  death. 


PART  11. 

Scene   I.  —  A   room   in   Julian's    castle.    Julian  and   the   old 

Nurse. 

Julian.      ]V  T  EMBRONI  ?     Count  Nembroni  ?  — 


XT  EMBRONI  ?     Cc 
I  remember : 


A  man  about  my  height,  but  stronger  built  ? 

I  have  seen  him  at  her  father's.    There  was  something 

I  did  not  like  about  him.  —  Ah  !  I  know  : 

He  had  a  way  of  darting  looks  at  one, 

As  if  he  wished  to  know  you,  but  by  stealth. 

Nurse.     The  same,  my  lord.     He  is  the  creditor. 
The  common  story  is,  he  sought  his  daughter, 
But  sought  in  vain  :  the  lady  would  not  wed. 
'Twas  rumored  soon  they  were  in  grievous  trouble, 
Which  caused  much  wonder,  for  the  family 
Was  always  counted  wealthy.     Count  Nembroni 
Contrived  to  be  the  only  creditor, 
And  so  imprisoned  him. 

Julian.  Where  is  the  lady  ? 


42  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  II. 

Nurse.  Down  in  the  town. 

yulian.  But  where  ? 

Nurse.  If  you  turn  left, 

When  you  go  through  the  gate,  'tis  the  last  house 
Upon  this  side  the  way.     An  honest  couple, 
Who  once  were  almost  pensioners  of  hers, 
Have  given  her  shelter,  till  she  find  a  home 
With  distant  friends.     Alas,  poor  lady !  'tis 
A  wretched  change  for  her. 

Julian.  Hm  !  ah  !  I  see. 

What  kind  of  man  is  this  Nembroni,  Nurse  ? 

Nurse.  Here  he  is  little  known.     His  title  comes 
From  an  estate,  they  say,  beyond  the  hills. 
He  looks  ungracious  :  I  have  seen  the  children 
Run  to  the  doors  when  he  came  up  the  street. 

Julian.  Thank  you,  Nurse  ;  you  may  go.     Stay  — 
one  thing  more. 
Have  any  of  my  people  seen  me  ? 

Nurse.  None. 

But  me,  my  lord. 

Julian.  And  can  you  keep  it  secret  ?  — 

I  know  you  will  for  my  sake.     I  will  trust  you. 
Bring  me  some  supper  ;  I  am  tired  and  faint. 

[Nurse  goes. 


Scene  I.  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  43 

Poor  and  alone  !     Such  a  man  has  not  laid 
Such  plans  for  nothing  further.     I  will  watch  him. 
Heaven  may  have  brought  me  hither  for  her  sake. 
Poor  child  !  I  would  protect  thee  as  thy  father, 
Who  cannot  help  thee.     Thou  wast  not  to  blame, 
My  love  had  no  claim  on  like  love  from  thee.  — 
How  the  old  love  comes  gushing  to  my  heart ! 

I  know  not  what  I  can  do  yet  but  watch. 
I  have  no  hold  on  him.     I  cannot  go, 
Say,  I  suspect :  and,  Is  it  so  or  not  ? 
I  should  but  injure  them  by  doing  so. 
True,  I  might  pay  her  father's  debts  ;  and  will, 
If  Joseph,  my  old  friend,  has  managed  well 
During  my  absence.     /  have  not  spent  much. 
But  still  she'd  be  in  danger  from  this  man. 
If  not  permitted  to  betray  himself ; 
And  T,  discovered,  could  no  more  protect. 
Or  if,  unseen  by  her,  I  yet  could  haunt 
Her  footsteps  like  an  angel,  not  for  long 
Should  I  remain  unseen  of  other  eyes, 
That  peer  from  under  cowls  —  not  angel-eyes  — 
Hunting  me  out,  over  the  stormy  earth. 

No  ;  I  must  watch.     I  can  do  nothing  better. 


44  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  Part  XL 

Scene  II.  —  A  poor  cottage.     An   old  Man  and   Woman  sitting 
together. 

Man.  How  's  the  poor  lady  now  ? 

Woma7i.  She's  poorly  still. 

I  fancy  every  day  she's  growing  thinner. 
I  am  sure  she's  wasting  steadily. 

Man.  Has  the  count 

Been  here  again  to-day  ? 

Woman.  No.    And  I  think 

He  will  not  come  again.     She  was  so  proud 
The  last  time  he  was  here,  you  would  have  thought 
She  was  a  queen  at  least. 

Man.  Remember,  wife, 

What  she  has  been.     Trouble  and  that  throws  down 
The  common  folk  like  us  all  of  a  heap  : 
With  folks  like  her,  that  are  high  bred  and  blood. 
It  sets  the  mettle  up. 

Woman.  All  very  right ; 

But  take  her  as  she  was,  she  might  do  worse 
Than  wed  the  Count  Nembroni. 

Man.  Possible. 

But  are  you  sure  there  is  no  other  man 
Stands  in  his  way  "i 


Scene  III.  -WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  45 

Woman.  How  can  I  tell .''    So  be, 

He  should  be  here  to  help  her.    What  she'll  do 
I  am  sure  I  do  not  know.    We  cannot  keep  her. 
And  for  her  work,  she  does  it  far  too  well 
To  earn  a  living  by  it.     Her  times  are  changed  — 
She  should  not  give  herself  such  prideful  airs. 

Man.    Come,  come,  old  wife  !  you  women   are   so 
hard 
On  one  another  !    You  speak  fair  for  men, 
And  make  allowances  ;  but  when  a  woman 
Crosses  your  way,  you  speak  the  worst  of  her. 
But  where  is  this  you're  going  then  to-night  "i 
Do  they  want  me  to  go -as  well  as  you  ? 

Woman.   Yes,  you  must  go,  or  else  it  is  no  use. 
They  cannot  give  the  money  to  me,  except 
My  husband  go  with  me.    He  told  me  so. 

Man.    Well,   wife,    it's    worth    the   going  —  just   to 
see  : 
I  don't  expect  a  groat  to  come  of  it. 

Scene  III.  —  Kitchen  of  a  small  inn.    Host  and  Hostess. 
Host.    That's  a  queer  customer  you've  got  up  stairs  ; 
What  the  deuce  is  he  ? 


46  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  II. 

Hostess.  What  is  that  to  us  ? 

He  always  pays  his  way,  and  handsomely. 
I  wish  there  were  more  like  him. 

Host.  Has  he  been 

At  home  all  day  ? 

Hostess.  He  has  not  stirred  a  foot 

Across  the  threshold.    That's  his  only  fault  — 
He's  always  in  the  way. 

Host.  What  does  he  do  ? 

Hostess.    Paces  about  the  room,  or  sits  at  the  win- 
dow. 
I  sometimes  make  an  errand  to  the  cupboard, 
To  see  what  he's  about :  he  looks  annoyed, 
But  does  not  speak  a  word. 

Host.  He  must  be  crazed, 

Or  else  in  hiding  for  some  scrape  or  other. 

Hostess.    He  has  a  wild  look  in  his  eye  sometimes  ; 
But  sure  he  would  not  sit  so  much  in  the  dark. 
If  he  were  mad,  or  anything  on  his  conscience  ; 
And  though  he  does  not  say  much  when  he  speaks 
A  civiller  man  ne'er  came  in  woman's  way. 

Host.    O  !   he's  all  right,  I  warrant.     Is    the    wine 
come  "i 


Scene  V.  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  47 

Scene  IV.  —  The  inn  ;  a  room  up  stairs.    Julian  at  the  window ^ 
half  hidden  by  the  curtain. 

yiclian.    With  what  profusion  her  white  fingers  spend 
Delicate  motions  on  the  insensate  cloth  ! 
It  was  so  late  this  morning  ere  she  came  ! 
I  fear  she  has  been  ill.     She  looks  so  pale ! 
Her  beauty  is  much  less,  but  she  more  lovely. 
Do  I  not  love  her  more  than  when  that  beauty 
Beamed  out  like  starlight,  radiating  beyond 
The  confines  of  her  wondrous  face  and  form, 
And  animated  with  a  present  power 
The  outmost  folds  and  waves  of  drapery  ? 

Ha !  there  is  something  now :  the  old  woman  drest 
In  her  Sunday  clothes,  and  waiting  at  the  door, 
As  for  her  husband.     Something  will  follow  this. 
And  here  he  comes,  all  in  his  best  like  her. 
They  will  be  gone  a  while.     Slowly  they  walk, 
With  short  steps  down  the  street.     Now  I  must  wake 
The  sleeping  hunter-eagle  in  my  eyes  ! 

Scene  V.  —  A  back  street.     Vivo  Servants   with  a  can-iage  and 
pair. 

1st  Serv.  Heavens,  what  a  cloud  !  as  big  as  ^tna  ! 

There  ! 

That  gust  blew  stormy.     Take  Juno  by  the  head, 


48  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  Part  II. 

I'll  stand  by  Neptune.     Take  her  head,  I  say  ; 
We'll  have  enough  to  do,  if  it  should  lighten. 

2d  Serv.    Such  drops  !     That's    the  first  of  it.      I 
declare 
She  spreads  her  nostrils  and  looks  wild  already, 
As  if  she  smelt  it  coming.     I  wish  we  were 
Under  some  roof  or  other.     I  fear  this  business 
Is  not  of  the  right  sort. 

\st  Serv.  He  looked  as  black 

As  if  he  too  had  lightning  in  his  bosom. 
There  !     Down^  you  brute  !     Mind  the  pole,  Beppo  ! 

Scene  VI. — Juliari's  room.  Julian  standing  at  the  zuindow, 
his  face  pressed  against  a  pane.  Stm-m  and  gathering  dark- 
ness without. 

Juliayt.    Plague  on  the  lamp  !  'tis  gone  —  no,  there 
it  flares  ! 
I  wish  the  wind  would  leave  or  blow  it  out. 
Heavens  !  how  it  thunders  !     This  terrific  storm 
Will  either  cow  or  harden  him.     I'm  blind ! 
That  lightning !     O,  let  me  see  again,  lest  he 
Should  enter  in  the  dark  !     I  cannot  bear 
This  glimmering  longer.     Now  that  gush  of  rain 
Has  blotted  all  my  view  with  crossing  lights. 


ScetsTeVII.         within   AND   WITHOUT.  49 

'Tis  no  use  waiting  here.     I  must  cross  over, 
And  take  my  stand  in  the  corner  by  the  door. 
But  if  he  comes  while  I  go  down  the  stairs, 
And  I  not  see  ?     To  make  sure,  I'll  go  gently 
Up  the  stair  to  the  landing  by  her  door. 

\^He goes  quickly  towards  the  door. 
Hostess  {opening  the  door  and  looking  in).    If  you  please. 
Sir  —  \^He  hurries  past. 

The  devil's  in  the  man  ! 

Scene  VII.  —  The  landing. 
Voice  within.      If  you  scream,  I  must  muffle  you. 
yulian  {rushing  up  the  stair).  He  is  there  ! 

His  hand  is  on  her  mouth  !     She  tries  to  scream  ! 

[Flinging  the  door  open,  as  Nembroni  springs  foi'ward  on 
the  other  side. 

Back! 

Nembroni.     What  the  devil !  —  Beggar  ! 

[Drawing  his  sword,  and  making  a  thrust  at  Julian,  which 
he  parries  with  his  left  arm,  as,  draiving  his  dagger,  he 
springs  within  Nembro'NI'' S  gtmrd. 

yuUa7i  {taking  him  by  the  throat) .     I    have    faced 
worse  storms  than  you.  [They  struggle. 

Heart  point  and  hilt  strung  on  the  line  of  force, 

[Stabbing  him. 
4 


50  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  II. 

Your  ribs  will  not  mail  your  heart ! 

[Nembroni  falls  dead.     Julian  wipes  his  dagger  on  the 
dead  mail's  coat. 

If  men  will  be  devils, 

They  are  better  in  hell  than  here. 

{Lightning  flashes  on  the  blade 

What  a  night 

For  a  soul  to  go  out  of  doors  !     God  in  heaven  ! 

{Approaching  the  lady  within 

Ah  !  she  has  fainted.     That  is  well.     I  hope 

It  will  not  pass  too  soon.     It  is  not  far 

To  the  half-hidden  door  in  my  own  fence, 

And  that  is  well.     If  I  step  carefully. 

Such  rain  will  soon  wash  out  the  tell-tale  foot-prints. 

What !    blood !     He  does    not   bleed   much,  I  should 

think. 

O,  I  see  !  it  is  mine  —  he  has  wounded  me. 

That's  awkward  now. 

[  Taking  a  hatidker chief  from  the  floor  by  the  tvindow. 

Pardon  me,  dear  lady  ; 

{Tying  the  haiidkerchtef  with  hand  and  teeth  round  his  arm. 

'Tis  not  to  save  my  blood  I  would  defile 

Even  your  handkerchief. 

{Coming  towards  the  door,  carrying  her. 


Scene  VIII.       WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  5 1 

I  am  pleased  to  think 
Ten  monkish  months  have  not  ta'en  all  my  strength. 

[Looking  out  of  the  windozo  on  the  landing. 

For  once,  thank   darkness  !     'Twas    sent  for  us,  not 

him.  \^He  goes  down  the  stair. 

Scene  VIII.  —  A  room  in  the  castle.    Julian  and  the  Nurse. 

jfiilian.    Ask   me  no  questions   now,  my  dear   old 
Nurse. 
You  have  put  your  charge  to  bed  ? 

Nurse.  Yes,  my  dear  lord. 

yulian.  And  has  she  spoken  yet  ? 

Nurse.  After  you  left, 

Her  eyelids  half  unclosed  ;  she  murmured  once : 
Where  am  I,  mother  ?  —  then  she  looked  at  me, 
And  her  eyes  wandered  over  all  my  face  ; 
Till  half  in  comfort,  half  in  weariness. 
They  closed  again.     Bless  her,  dear  soul  !  she  is 
As  feeble  as  a  child. 

JuHan.  Under  your  care. 

She  will  recover  soon.     Let  no  one  know 
She  is  in  the  house :  —  blood  has  been  shed  for  her. 

Nurse.  Alas  !     I  feared  it ;  for  her  dress  is  bloody. 


52  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  II. 

yulian.  That's  mine,  not  his.     But  put  it  in  the  fire. 
Get  her  another.     I'll  leave  a  purse  with  you. 

Nurse.  Leave  1 

yulia7i.  Yes.     I  am  off  to-night,  wander- 

ing again 
Over  the  earth  and  sea.     She  must  not  know 
I  have  been  here.     You  must  contrive  to  keep 
My  share  a  secret.     Once  she  moved  and  spoke 
When  a  branch  caught  her ;  but  she  could  not  see  me. 
She  thought,  no  doubt,  it  was  Nembroni  had  her. 
Nor  would  she  have  known  me.     You  must  hide  her, 

Nurse. 
Let  her  on  no  pretense  know  where  she  is, 
Nor  utter  word  that  might  awake  a  guess. 
When  she  is  well  and  wishes  to  be  gone, 
Then  write  to  this  address  —  but  under  cover 

[  Writing. 

To  the  Prince  Calboli  at  Florence.     I 
Will  manage  all  the  rest.     But  let  her  know 
Her  father  is  set  free  ;  assuredly. 
Ere  you  can  give  the  news,  it  will  be  so. 

Nurse.  How  shall  I  best  conceal  her,  my  good  lord  ? 

Julian.  I  have  thought  of  that.    There's  a  deserted 
room 


Scene  VIII.     WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  53 

In  the  old  south  wing,  at  the  further  end 
Of  the  oak  gallery. 

Nurse.  Not  deserted  quite. 

I  ventured,  when  you  left,  to  make  it  mine, 
Because  you  loved  it  when  a  boy,  my  lord. 

Julian.  You  do  not  know,  Nurse,  why  I   loved  it 
though  : 
I  found  a  sliding  panel,  and  a  door 
Into  a  room  behind.     I'll  show  it  you. 
You'll  find  some  musty  traces  of  me  yet, 
When  you  go  in.     Now  take  her  to  your  room, 
But  get  the  other  ready.     Light  a  fire, 
And  keep  it  burning  well  for  several  days. 
Then,  one  by  one,  out  of  the  other  rooms, 
Take  everything  to  make  it  comfortable  ; 
Quietly,  you  know.     If  you  must  have  your  daughter. 
Bind  her  to  be  as  secret  as  yourself. 
Then  put  her  there.     I'll  let  her  father  know 
She  is  in  safety.     I  must  change  my  clothes. 
And  be  far  ofi"  or  ever  morning  breaks.  [Nurse  goes. 

My  treasure-room !  how  little  then  I  thought, 
Glad  in  my  secret,  one  day  it  would  hold 
A  treasure  unto  which  I  dared  not  come. 


54  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  Part  II. 

Perhaps  she'd  love  me  now  —  a  very  little  ?  — 
But  not  with  even  a  heavenly  gift  would  I 
Go  beg  her  love  ;  that  should  be  free  as  light, 
Cleaving  unto  myself  even  for  myself 
I  have  enough  to  brood  on,  joy  to  turn 
Over  and  over  in  my  secret  heart : 
She  lives,  and  is  the  better  that  I  live. 

Reenter  Nurse. 
Nurse.    My  lord,  her  mind  is   wandering ;    she  is 
raving ; 
She's  in  a  dreadful  fever.     We  must  send 
To  Arli  for  the  doctor,  else  her  life 
Will  be  in  danger. 

jfulia?!  {rising  disturbed).    Go  and  fetch  your  daugh- 
ter. 
Take  her  at  once  to  your  own  room,  and  there 
I'll  see  her.     Can  3^ou  manage  it  between  you  ? 
Nurse.  O  yes,  my  lord ;  she  is  so  thin,  poor  child  ! 

[Nurse  ^^^x. 
yulian.  I  ought  to  know  the  way  to  treat  a  fever, 
If  it  be  one  of  twenty.     Hers  has  come 
Of  low  food,  wasting,  and  anxiety. 
I've  seen  enough  of  that  in  Prague  and  Smyrna. 


Scene  IX.         WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  55 

Scene  IX.  —  The  Abbot'^s  room  in  the  monastery.     The  Abbot. 
Abbot.  'Tis  useless  all.     No  trace  of  him  found  yet. 
One  hope  remains  :  we'll  see  what  Stephen  says. 

Enter  Stephen. 
Stephen,  I  have  sent  for  you,  because  I  am  told 
You  said  to-day,  if  I  commissioned  you. 
You'd  scent  him  out,  if  skulking  in  his  grave. 

Stephen.  I  did^  my  lord. 

Abbot.  How    would   you   do   it, 

Stephen  ? 

Stephen.  Try  one  plan  till  it  failed  ;  then  try  another  ; 
Try  half  a  dozen  plans  at  once  ;  keep  eyes 
And  ears  wide  open,  and  mouth  shut,  my  lord  : 
Your  bull-dog  sometimes  makes  the  best  retriever. 
I  have  no  plan ;  but,  give  me  time  and  money, 
I'll  find  him  out. 

Abbot.  Stephen,  you're  just  the  man 

I  have  been  longing  for.     Get  yourself  ready. 


56  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  Part  II. 

Scene  X.  —  Towards  mo7'ning.    The  Nurse's  room.    LiLlA  in  bed. 
Julian  watching. 

yulian.  I  think  she  sleeps.    Would  God  it  were  so  j 
then 
She  would   do  well.      What  strange    things   she    has 

spoken ! 
My  heart  is  beating  as  if  it  would  spend 
Its  life  in  this  one  night,  and  beat  it  out. 
No  wonder !  there  is  more  of  life's  delight  . 
In  one  hour  such  as  this  than  many  years  ; 
For  life  is  measured  by  intensity, 
Not  by  the  how  much  of  the  crawling  clock. 

Is  that  a  bar  of  moonlight  stretched  across 
The  window-blind  .'*  or  is  it  but  a  band 
Of  whiter  cloth  my  thrifty  dame  has  sewed 
Upon  the  other  ?     No  ;  it  is  the  moon 
Low  down  in  the  west.     'Twas  such  a  moon  as  this  — 

Lilia  {half  asleep,  wildly).     If  Julian  had  been  here, 
you  dared  not  do  it  — 
Julian  !  Julian  !  {Half  rising. 

yulian  {forgetting  his  caution^  and  goifig  up  to  her). 
I  am  here,  my  Lilia.     No. 


Scene  X.  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  57 

Put  your  head  down,  my  love.     'Twas  all  a  dream, 
A  terrible  dream.     Gone  now  —  is  it  not? 

[S/ie  looks  at  him  with  wide  restless  eyes  ;  then  sinks  back  on 
the  pillow.     He  leaves  her. 

How  her  dear  eyes  bewildered  looked  at  me  ! 
But  her  soul's  eyes  are  closed.     If  this  last  long 
She'll  die  before  my  sight,  and  Joy  will  lead 
In  by  the  hand  her  sister,  Grief,  pale-faced. 
And  leave  her  to  console  my  solitude. 
Ah,  what  a  joy !  I  dare  not  think  of  it ! 
And  what  a  grief!    I  will  not  think  of  that ! 
Love  ?  and  from  her  ?  my  beautiful,  my  own  ! 
O  God,  I  did  not  know  thou  wert  so  rich 
In  making  and  in  giving.     I  knew  not 
The  gathered  glory  of  this  earth  of  thine. 
O !  wilt  thou  crush  me  with  an  infinite  joy? 
Make  me  a  god  by  giving  —  making  mine 
Thy  centre-thought  of  living  beauty  ?  —  sprung 
From  thee,  and  coming  home  to  dwell  with  me  ! 

\^H'e  leans  on  the  wall. 

Lilia    {softly).     Am   I   in   heaven  ?     There's    some- 
thing makes  me  glad, 
As  if  I  were  in  heaven  !     Yes,  yes,  I  am. 


58  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  II. 

I  see  the  flashing  of  ten  thousand  glories  ; 

I  hear  the  trembling  of  a  thousand  wings, 

That  vibrate  music  on  the  murmuring  air  ! 

Each  tiny  feather-blade  crushes  its  pool 

Of  circling  air  to  sound,  and  quivers  music. 

What  is  it,  though,  that  makes  me  glad  like  this  ? 

I  knew,  but  cannot  find  it  — ^  I  forget. 

It  must  be  here  —  what  was  it  ^     Hark  !  the  fall, 

The  endless  going  of  the  stream  of  life  ! 

Ah  me !  I  thirst,  I  thirst,  —  I  am  so  thirsty  ! 

[Queru/ous/y. 
[Julian  gives  her  drink,  supporting  her.    She  looks  at  him 
again,  with  large  wondering  eyes. 

Ah  !  now  I  know  —  I  was  so  very  thirsty  ! 

\He  lays  her  dozun.      She   is   comforted,  and  falls  asleep. 
He  extinguishes  the  light,  and  looks  out  of  the  witidow. 

yulian.     The  gray  earth  dawning  up,  cold,  comfort- 
less ; 
With  an  obtrusive  /  a7n  written  large 
Upon  its  face  ! 

\Approaching  the  bed,   and  gazing  on  LiLiA   silently  with 
clasped  hands  ;  then  returning  to  the  window. 

She  sleeps  so  peacefully  ? 
O  God,  I  thank  thee  :  thou  hast  sent  her  sleep. 
Lord,  let  it  sink  into  her  heart  and  brain. 


Scene  X.  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  59 

Enter  NuRSE. 

0  Nurse,  I'm  glad  you're  come.     She  is  asleep. 
You  must  be  near  her  when  she  wakes  again. 

1  think  she'll  be  herself.     But  do  be  careful  — 
Right  cautious  how  you  tell  her  I  am  here. 
Sweet  woman-child,  may  God  be  in  your  sleep  ! 

[Julian  goes. 

Nurse.     Bless  her  white  face  !     She  looks  just  like 
my  daughter, 
That's  now  a  saint  in  heaven.     Just  those  thin  cheeks, 
And  eyelids  hardly  closed  over  her  eyes  ! 
Go  on,  poor  darling  !  you  are  drinking  life 
From  the  breast  of  Sleep.     And  yet  I  fain  would  see 
Your  shutters  open,  for  I  then  should  know 
Whether  the  soul  had  drawn  her  curtains  back. 
To  peep  at  morning  from  her  own  bright  windows. 
Ah,  what  a  joy  is  ready,  waiting  her. 
To  break  her  fast  upon,  if  her  wild  dreams 
Have  but  betrayed  her  secrets  honestly  ! 
Will  he  not  give  thee  love  as  dear  as  thine  ? 


6o  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  Part  II. 


Scene  XI.  —  A  hilly  road.     Stephen,  trudging  alone,  pauses  to 
look  around  him. 

Stephen.  Not  a  footprint !  not  a  trace  that  a  blood- 
hound would  nose  at !  But  Stephen  shall  be  acknowl- 
edged a  good  dog  and  true.  If  I  had  him  within 
stick-length  —  mind  thy  head,  brother  Julian  !  Thou 
hast  not  hair  enough  to  protect  it,  and  thy  tonsure 
shall  not.  Neither  shalt  thou  tarry  at  Jericho.  It  is 
a  poor  man  that  leaves  no  trail ;  and  if  thou  wert  poor, 
I  would  not  follow  thee. 


\Sings. 


O  !  many  a  hound  is  stretching  out 

His  two  legs  or  his  four, 
Where  the  saddled  horses  stand  about 

The  court  and  the  castle  door ; 
Till  out  comes  the  baron,  jolly  and  stout, 

To  hunt  the  bristly  boar. 

The  emperor,  he  .doth  keep  a  pack 
In  his  antechambers  standing. 

And  up  and  down  the  stairs,  good  lack  ! 
And  eke  upon  the  landing  : 

A  straining  leash,  and  a  quivering  back, 
And  nostrils  and  chest  expanding  ! 

The  devil  a  hunter  long  has  been. 
Though  Doctor  Luther  said  it  : 


Scene  XII.       WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  6l 

Of  his  canon-pack  he  was  the  clean, 

And  merrily  he  led  it : 
To  fatten  them  up,  when  game  is  lean 

He  keeps  his  dogs  on  credit. 

Each  man  is  a  hunter  to  his  trade, 

And  they  follow  one  another  ; 
But  such  a  hunter  never  was  made 

As  the  monk  that  hunted  his  brother  ! 
And  the  runaway  pig,  alive  or  dead, 

Shall  be  eaten  by  its  mother. 

Better  hunt  a  flea  in  a  woolly  blanket,  than  a  leg- 
bail  monk  in  this  wilderness  of  mountains,  forests,  and 
precipices !  But  the  flea  may  be  caught,  and  so  shall 
the  monk.  I  have  said  it.  He  is  well  spotted,  with 
his  silver  crown,  and  his  uncropped  ears.  The  ras- 
cally vow-breaker!  But  his  vows  shall  keep  him, 
whether  he  keep  them  or  not.  The  whining,  blubber- 
ing idiot !  Gave  his  plaything,  and  wants  it  back  !  — 
I  wonder  whereabouts  I  am. 


Scene  XII.  —  The  Nurse's  room.     Lilia  sitting  up  in  bed.     JU- 
LIAN seated  by  her ;  an  open  note  in  his  hajid. 

Lilia.  Tear  it  up,  Julian. 

Julian.  No  ;  I'll  treasure  it 

As  the  remembrance  of  a  by-gone  grief: 
I  love  it  well,  because  it  is  not  yours. 


62  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  II. 

Lilia.  Where  have  you  been  these  long,  long  years 
away .'' 
You  look  much  older.     You  have  suffered,  Julian  ! 
jfulia7t.   Since  that  day,  Lilia,  I   have   seen   much, 
thought  much  ; 
Suffered  perhaps  a  little.     But  of  this 
We'll  say  no  more.     When  you  are  quite  yourself, 
I'll  tell  you  all  you  want  to  know  about  me. 

Lilia.    Do    tell    me   something   now.     I    feel    quite 
strong  ; 
It  will  not  hurt  me. 

jfiilia?!.  Wait  a  day  or  two. 

Indeed  'twould  weary  you  to  tell  you  all. 

Lilia.  And  I  have  much  to  tell  you,  Julian.     I 
Have  suffered  too  —  not  all  for  my  own  sake. 

{Recalling  something: 

0  what  a  dream  I  had  !     O  Julian  !  — 

1  don't  know  when  it  was.     It  must  have  been 
Before  you  brought  me  here  :   I  am  sure  it  was. 

jfulian.  Don't  speak  about  it.     Tell  me  afterwards. 
You  must  keep  quiet  now.     Indeed  you  must. 
Lilia.  I  will  obey  you,  and  not  speak  a  word. 


r 


Scene  XIII.      WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  6$ 

Enter  NuRSE. 
Nurse.  Blessings  upon  her  !    She's  near  well  already. 
Who  would  have  thought,  three  days  ago,  to  see 
You  look  so  bright  t    My  lord,  you  have  done  wonders. 
yiilia?i.  'Tis    not   my  work,   dame.     I    must   leave 
you  now. 
To  please  me,  Liha,  go  to  sleep  awhile. 

[Julian  goes, 
Lilia.  Why  does  he  always  wear  that  curious  cap  ? 
Nurse.  I  don't  know.     You  must  sleep. 
Lilia.  Yes.     I  forgot. 

Scene  XIII.  —  The  Steward's  room.    Julian  and  the  Steward. 
Papers  oJi  the  table,  which  Julian  has  just  finished  exa?nining. 

yulian.  Thank  you  much,  Joseph ;  you  have  done 

well  for  me. 
You  sent  that  note  privately  to  my  friend  ? 

Steward.    I  did,  my  lord ;   and  have  conveyed  the 

money. 
Putting  all  things  in  train  for  his  release, 
Without  appearing  in  it  personally. 
Or  giving  any  clew  to  other  hands. 
He  sent  this  message  by  my  messenger : 
His  hearty  thanks,  and  God  will  bless  you  for  it. 


64  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  II. 

He  will  be  secret.     For  his  daughter,  she 
Is  safe  with  you  as  with  himself;  and  so 
God  bless  you  both  !     He  will  expect  to  hear 
From  both  of  you  from  England. 

yulian.  Well,  again. 

What  money  is  remaining  in  your  hands  ? 

Steward.  Two  bags,  tliree  hundred  each  ;  that's  all. 
I  fear 
To  wake  suspicion,  if  I  call  in  more. 

yiilian.    Quite  right.      One    thing  besides  :  lest   a 
mischance 
Befall  us,  though  I  do  not  fear  it  much,  — 
We  have  been  very  secret,  —  is  that  boat 
I  had  before  I  left,  in  sailing  trim  ? 

Steward.  I  knew  it  was  a  favorite  with  my  lord ; 
I've  taken  care  of  it.     A  month  ago 
With  my  own  hands  I  painted  it  all  fresh. 
Fitting  new  oars  and  rowlocks.     The  old  sail 
I'll  have  replaced  immediately ;  and  then 


*Twill  be  as  good  as  new. 


yulian.  That's  excellent. 

Well,  launch  it  in  the  evening.     Make  it  fast 
To  the  stone  steps  behind  my  garden  study. 


Scene  XIV.       WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  6$ 

Stow  in  the  lockers  some  sea-stores,  and  put 
The  money  in  the  old  desk  in  the  study. 

Steward.  I  will,  my  lord.     It  will  be  safe  enough. 

Scene  XIV.  —  A  road  near  the  town.    A  Wagoner.     Stephen, 
in  lay  dress,  coming  up  to  him, 

Stephen.  Whose  castle's    that    upon    the    hill,  good 
fellow  .'' 

Wagoner.  It's  present  owner's  of  the  Uglii ; 
They  call  him  Lorenzino. 

Stephen.  Whose  is  that 

Down  in  the  valley  ? 

Wagoner.  That  is  Count  Lamballa's. 

Stephen.  What  is  his  Christian  name  ? 

Wagoner.  Omfredo.     No. 

That  was  his  father's  ;  his  is  Julian. 

Stephen.    Is  he  at  home  ? 

Wagoner.  No,  not  for  many  a  day. 

His  steward,  honest  man,  I  know  is  doubtful 
Whether  he  be  alive  ;  and  yet  his  land 
Is  better  farmed  than  any  in  the  country. 

Stephen.    He  is  not  married,  then  ? 

Wagoner.  •  No.     There's  a  gossip 

5 


66  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  II. 

Amongst   the    women  —  but    who   would    heed    their 

talking  ?  — 
That  love  half  crazed,  then  drove  him  out  of  doors, 
To  wander  here  and  there,  like  a  bad  ghost, 
Because  a  silly  wench  refused  him  —  fudge  ! 

Stephen.    Most  probably.     I  quite  agree  with  you. 
Where  do  you  stop  ? 

Wagoner.  At  the  first  inn  we  come  to  ; 

You'll  see  it  from  the  bottom  of  the  hill. 
There  is  a  better  at  the  farther  end, 
But  then  the  stabling  is  not  near  so  good. 

Stephen.    I  must  push  on.     Four  legs  can  never  go 
Down  hill  so  fast  as  two.     Good-morning,  friend. 

Wagoner.   Good- morning,  sir. 

Stephen  [aside).  I  take  the  other  inn. 

Scene  XV. —  The  Nurse's  room.     Julian  and  Lilia  standing 
near  tJie  ivindow. 

Julian.    But  do  you  really  love  me,  Lilia? 

Lilia.    Why  do  you  make  me  say  it  so  often,  Julian  ? 
You  make  me  say  I  love  you^  oftener  far 
Than  you  say  you  love  me. 

yulian.  Because  mine  seems 


Scene  XV.        WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  6/ 

So  much  a  love  of  mere  necessity. 

I  can  refrain  from  loving  you  no  more 

Than  keep  from  waking  when  the  sun  shines  full 

Upon  my  face. 

Lilia.  And  yet  I  love  to  say 

How,  how  I  love  you,  Julian  ! 

\Leans  her  head  on  his  a^'m.     JULIAN  winces  a  little.     She 
raises  her  head  and  looks  at  him. 

Did  I  hurt  you  ? 
Would  you  not  have  me  lean  my  head  on  you  ? 

jfulian.    Come  on  this  side,  my  love  ;  'tis  a  slight 
hurt 
Not  yet  quite  healed. 

Lilia.  Ah,  my  poor  Julian  !  how  ? 

I  am  so  sorry  !-    O  !   I  do  remember  ! 
I  saw  it  all  quite  plain  !     It  was  no  dream  ! 
I  saw  you  fighting  !     But  you  did  not  kill  him  ? 

JuUan  {calmly^  hid  drawing  himself  tip).   I  killed  him 

as  I  would  a  dog  that  bit  you. 
Lilia  {turning  pale,  and  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands).    O,    that   is  dreadful  ;    there   is  blood 
on  you  ! 
yulian.    Shall  I  go,  Lilia  .^ 


68  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  Part  II. 

Lilia.  O  no,  no,  no,  do  not. 

I  shall  be  better  presently. 

yulian.  You  shrink 

As  from  a  murderer. 

Lilia.  O  no,  Ilove  you  — 

Will  never  leave  you.     Pardon  me,  my  Julian  ; 
But  blood  is  very  dreadful. 

yulian  {df'awing  her  close  to  him).    My  sweet  Lilia, 
'Twas  justly  shed,  for  your  defense  and  mine. 
As  it  had  been  a  tiger  that  I  killed. 
He  had  no  right  to  live.     Be  at  peace,  darling  ; 
His  blood  lies  not  on  me,  but  on  himself; 
I  do  not  feel  its  stain  upon  my  conscience. 

\^A  tap  at  the  door. 

Enter  NuRSE. 

Nurse.    My  lord,  the  steward  waits  on  you,  below. 

[Julian  goes. 
You  have  been  standing  till  you're  faint,  my  lady. 
Lie  down  a  little.     There  —  I'll  fetch  you  something. 


I 


Scene  XVI.      WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  69 

Scene  XVI.  —  The  Steward's  room.    Julian.     The  Steward. 

yulia7i.     Well,  Joseph,  that  will  do.     I  shall  expect 
To  hear  from  you  soon  after  my  arrival. 
Is  the  boat  ready? 

Steward.  Yes,  my  lord  ;  afloat 

Where  you  directed. 

Julian.  A  strange  feeling  haunts  me, 

As  of  some  danger  near.     Unlock  it,  and  cast 
The  chain  around  the  post.     Muffle  the  oars. 

Steward.  I  will,  directly.  \_Goes. 

Julian.  How  shall  I  manage  it  "i 

I  have  her  father's  leave,  but  have  not  dared 
To  tell  her  all ;  and  she  must  know  it  first. 
She  fears  me  half,  even  now  :  what  will  she  think 
To  see  my  shaven  head  .-*    My  heart  is  free  — 
I  know  that  God  absolves  mistaken  vows. 
I  looked  for  help  in  the  high  search  from  those 
Who  knew  the  secret  place  of  the  Most  High. 
If  I  had  known^  would  I  have  bound  myself 
Brother  to  men  from  whose  low,  marshy  minds 
Never  a  lark  springs  to  salute  the  day  ? 
The  loftiest  of  them  dreamers  ;  and  the  best 


•JO  WITHIN    AND    WITHOUT.  Part  II. 

Content  with  goodness  growing  like  moss  on  stones. 
It  cannot  be  God's  will  I  should  be  such. 
But  there  was  more  :  they  virtually  condemned 
Me  in  my  quest ;  would  have  had  me  content 
To  kneel  with  them  around  a  wayside  post, 
Nor  heed  the  pointing  finger  at  its  top  ? 
It  was  the  dull  abode  of  foolishness. 
Not  such  the  house  where  God  would  train  his  chil- 
dren. 
My  very  birth  into  a  world  of  men 
Shows  me  the  school  where  He  would  have  me  learn  ; 
Shows  me  the  place  of  penance  ;  shows  the  field 
Where  I  must  fight  and  die  victorious, 
Or  yield  and  perish.     True,  I  know  not  how 
This  will  fall  out :   He  must  direct  my  way. 
But  then  for  her  —  she  cannot  see  all  this ; 
Words  will  not  make  it  plain  ;  and  if  they  would, 
The  time  is  shorter  than  the  words  would  need : 
This  overshadowing  bodes  nearing  ill. 
It  may  be  only  vapor,  of  the  heat 
Of  too  much  joy  engendered  ;  sudden  fear 
That  the  fair  gladness  is  too  good  to  live  : 
The  wider  prospect  from  the  steep  hill's  crest, 


Scene  XVI.       WITHIN   AND  WITHOUT.  'J\ 

The  deeper  to  the  gulf  the  cHff  goes  down. 

But  how  will  she  receive  it?    Will  she  think 

I  have  been  mocking  her.^*    How  could  I  help  it? 

Her  illness  and  my  danger !    But,  indeed, 

So  strong  was  I  in  truth,  I  never  thought 

Her  doubts  might  prove  a  hindrance  in  the  way. 

My  love  did  make  her  so  a  part  of  me, 

I  never  dreamed  she  might  judge  otherwise. 

Until  our  talk  of  yesterday.     And  now 

Her  horror  at  Nembroni's  death  confirms  me : 

To  wed  a  monk  will  seem  to  her  the  worst 

Of  crimes  which  in  a  fever  one  might  dream. 

I  cannot  take  the  truth,  and,  bodily, 

Hold  it  before  her  eyes.     She  is  not  strong. 

She  loves  me  not  as  I  love  her.     But  always  — 

There's  Robert  for  an  instance  —  I  have  loved 

A  life  for  what  it  might  become,  far  more 

Than  for  its  present :  there's  a  germ  in  her 

Of  something  noble,  much  beyond  her  now  : 

Chance  gleams  betray  it,  though  she  knows  it  not. 

This  evening  must  decide  it,  come  what  will. 


72  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  Part  II. 

Scene  XVII.  —  The  inn  ;  the  room  which  had  been  JuliarCs. 
Stephen,  Host,  and  Hostess.    Wine  on  the  table. 

Stephen.  Here,  my  good  lady,  let  me  fill  your  glass 
Then  pass  it  to  your  husband,  if  you  please. 

Hostess.  I  thank  you,  sir ;  I  hope  it's  to  your  taste ; 
My  husband's  choice  is  praised.     I  cannot  say 
I  am  a  judge  myself. 

Host.  I'm  confident 

It  needs  but  to  be  tasted. 

Stephe7i  {tasting  critically^  then  nodding).     That   is 
wine. 
I  quite  congratulate  you,  my  good  sir. 
Upon  your  exquisite  judgment. 

Host.  Thank  you,  sir. 

Stephen  {to  the  Hostess).    And  so  this  man,  you  say, 
was  here  until 
The  night  the  Count  was  murdered  :  did  he  leave 
Before  or  after  that  ? 

Hostess.  I  cannot  tell. 

He  left  before  it  was  discovered  though. 
In  the  middle  of  the  storm,  like  one  possessed. 
He  rushed  into  the  street,  half  tumbling^  me 


Scene  XVII.      WITHIN  AND  WITHOUT.  73 

Headlong  down  stairs.     He  never  came  again. 
He  had  paid  his  bill  that  morning,  luckily  ; 
So  joy  go  with  him  !     Well,  he  was  an  odd  one. 

Stephen.  What  was  he  like,  fair  Hostess  .? 

Hostess.  Tall  and  dark 

And  with  a  lowering  look  about  his  brows. 
He  seldom  spoke,  but,  when  he  did,  was  civil. 
One  queer  thing  was,  he  always  wore  his  hat, 
In-doors  as  well  as  out.     I  dare  not  say 
He  murdered  Count  Nembroni ;  but  it  was  strange 
He  always  sat  at  that  same  window  there, 
And  looked  into  the  street.     'Tis  not  as  if 
There  were  much  traffic  in  this  village  now  ; 
These  are  changed  times ;  but  I  have  seen  the  day  — 

Step/left.  Excuse  me ;  you  were  saying  that  the  man 
Sat  at  the  window  — 

Hostess.  Yes  ;  even  after  dark 

He  would  sit  on,  and  never  call  for  lights. 
The  first  night,  I  brought  candles,  as  of  course ; 
He  let  me  set  them  on  the  table,  true  ; 
But  soon's  my  back  was  turned,  he  put  them  out. 

Stepheti.  Where  is  the  lady  ? 

Hostess.  That's  the  strangest  thing 


74  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  Part  II. 

Of  all  the  story :  she  has  disappeared, 
As  well  as  he.     There  lay  the  Count,  stone-dead, 
White  as  my  apron.     The  whole  house  was  empty, 
Just  as  I  told  you. 

Stephen.  Has  no  search  been  made  ? 

Host.  The  closest  search  ;  a  thousand  pieces  offered 
For  any  information  that  should  lead 
To  the  murderer's  capture.     I  believe  his  brother. 
Who  is  his  heir,  they  say,  is  still  in  town. 
Seeking  in  vain  for  some  intelligence. 

Stephe7i.  'Tis  very  odd ;  the  oddest  thing  I've  heard 
For  a  long  time.     Send  me  a  pen  and  ink  ; 
I  have  to  write  some  letters. 

Hostess  {rising).  Thank  you,  sir, 

For  your  kind  entertainment.     You'll  find  ink 
And  paper  on  that  table  near  the  window. 

[Exeunt  Host  a^td  Hostess. 

Stepheft.  We've  found  the  badger's  hole ;  we'll  draw 
him  next.  He  couldn't  have  gone  far  with  her  and 
not  be  seen.  My  life  on  it,  there  are  plenty  of  holes 
and  corners  in  the  old  house  over  the  way.  Run  off 
with  a  wench  !  Holy  brother  Julian  !  Contemptuous 
brother  Julian  !    Stand-by-thyself  brother  Julian  !    Run 


Scene  XVII.     WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  75 

away  with  a  wench  at  last !  Well,  there's  a  downfall ! 
He'll  be  for  marrying  her  on  the  sly,  and  away;  —  I 
know  the  old  fox  ;  —  for  her  conscience-sake,  probably 
not  for  his.  Well,  one  comfort  is,  it's  damnation  and 
no  reprieve.  The  ungrateful,  atheistical  heretic  !  As 
if  the  good  old  mother  wasn't  indulgent  enough  to  the 
foibles  of  her  children  !  The  worthy  lady  has  winked 
so  hard  at  her  dutiful  sons,  that  she's  nearly  blind  with 
winking.  There's  nothing  in  a  little  affair  with  a  girl 
now  and  then ;  but  to  marry,  and  knock  one's  vows  on 
the  head  !  Therein  is  displayed  a  little  ancestral  fact, 
as  to  a  certain  respectable  progenitor,  commonly  por- 
trayed as  the  knight  of  the  cloven  foot.  Keep  back  thy 
servant,  etc.  —  Purgatory  couldn't  cleanse  that  ;  and 
more,  'twill  never  have  the  chance.  Heaven  be  about 
us  from  harm  !  Amen.  I'll  go  find  the  new  Count. 
The  Church  shall  have  the  castle  and  estate  ;  Re- 
venge, in  the  person  of  the  new  Count,  the  body  of 
Julian ;  and  Stephen  may  as  well  have  the  thousand 
pieces  as  not. 


j6  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  XL 

Scene    XVIII.  —  Night.     The    Nurse's  room.      Lilia  ;    to  her 
Julian. 

Lilia.  How  changed  he  is  !     Yet  he  looks  very  no- 
ble. 

Enter  Julian. 

yidiafi.  My  Lilia,  will  you  go  to  England  with  me  ? 

Lilia.  Julian,  my  father  ! 

yulian.  Not  without  his  leave. 

He  says,  God  bless  us  both. 

Lilia.  Leave  him  in  prison  ? 

jfuliaii.  No,  Lilia  ;  he's  at  liberty  and  safe, 
And  far  from  this  ere  now. 

Lilia.  You  have  done  this, 

My  noble  Julian.     I  will  go  with  you 
To  sunset,  if  you  will.     My  father  gone  ! 
Julian,  there's  none  to  love  me  now  but  you. 
You  will  love  me,  Julian  ?  —  always  ? 

jfulian.  I  but  fear 

That  your  heart,  Lilia,  is  not  big  enough 
To  hold  the  love  wherewith  my  heart  would  fill  it. 

Lilia.  I  know  why  you  think  that ;  and  I  deserve  it. 
But  try  me,  Julian.     I  was  very  silly. 


Scene  XVIII.       WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  "J^J 

I  could  not  help  it.  I  was  ill,  you  know  j 
Or  weak  at  least.  May  I  ask  you,  Julian, 
How  your  arm  is  to-day  ? 

JuUan.  Almost  well,  child. 

'Twill  leave  an  ugly  scar,  though,  I'm  afraid. 

Lilia.  Never  mind  that,  if  it  be  well  again. 

yuliaji.  I  do  not  mind  it  ;  but  when  I  remember 
That  I  am  all  yours,  then  I  grudge  that  scratch 
Or  stain  should  be  upon  me  —  soul,  body,  yours. 
And  there  are  more  scars  on  me  now  than  I 
Should  like  to  make  you  own,  without  confession. 

Lilia.  My  poor,  poor  Julian  !     Never  think  of  it ; 

[Putting  her  arms  round  him. 

I  will  but  love  you  more.     I  thought  you  had 
Already  told  me  suffering  enough  ; 
But  not  the  half,  it  seems,  of  your  adventures. 
You  have  been  a  soldier! 

jfiilian.  I  have  fought,  my  Lilia. 

I  have  been  down  amongst  the  horses'  feet ; 
But  strange  to  tell,  and  harder  to  believe, 
Arose  all  sound,  unmarked  with  bruise,  or  blood 
Save  what  I  lifted  from  the  gory  ground. 

{Sighing 


y8  WITHIN  AND    WITHOUT.  Part  II. 

My  wounds  are  not  of  such. 

[LiLiA,  loosening  her  arms,  and  drawing  back  a  Utile 
with  a  kind  of  shrinking,  looks  a  frightened  ititer- 
rogation. 

No.     Penance^  Lilia  ; 

Such  penance  as  the  saints  of  old  inflicted 
Upon  their  quivering  flesh.     Folly,  I  know  ; 
As  a  lord  would  exalt  himself,  by  making 
His  willing  servants  into  trembling  slaves. 
Yet  I  have  borne  it. 

Lilia  {laying  her  hand  on  his  arm).     Ah,  alas,  my 
Julian  ! 
You  have  been  guilty. 

Julian.  Not  what  men  call  guilty. 

Save  it  be  now ;  now  you  will  think  I  sin. 
Alas,  I  have  sinned  much  !  but  not  in  this. 
Lilia,  I  have  been  a  monk. 

Lilia.  A  monk  !  [Turning pale- 

I  thought —       [Faltering. 

Julian,  —  I     thought     you     said  .  .  .  did     you     not 

say  .   .   .  ?  [Very pale,  brokenly. 

I  thought  you  said  ...  [  ^ith  an  effort. 

I  was  to  be  your  wife  ! 

[Covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  bi^rsting  into  tears. 


Scene  XVIII.    WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  79 

Julian  {speaking  low  and  in  pain).     And  so  I  did. 
Lilia  {hopefully  and  looking  up).     Then  you've  had 

dispensation  ? 
Julian.  God  has  absolved  me,  though  the  Church 
will  not. 
He  knows  it  was  in  ignorance  I  did  it. 
Rather  would  He  have  men  to  do  his  will, 
Than  keep  a  weight  of  words  upon  their  souls, 
Which  they  laid  there,  not  graven  by  his  finger. 
The  vow  was  made  to  him  —  to  him  I  break  it. 

Lilia   {weeping  bitterly).     I    would  .  .  .  your  words 
were  true  .  .  .  but  I  do  know  .  .  . 
It  never  can  ...  be  right  to  break  a  vow  ; 
If  so,  men  might  be  liars  every  day  ; 
You'd  do  the  same  by  me,  if  we  were  married. 

Julian  {in  anguish).    'Tis  ever  so.     Words  are  the 
living  things  ! 
There  is  no  spirit  —  save  what's  born  of  words  ! 
Words  are  the  bonds  that  of  two  souls  make  one  ! 
Words  the  security  of  heart  to  heart ! 
God,  make  me  patient  I     God,  I  pray  thee,  God  ! 
Lilia  {not  heeding  hi?fi).  Besides,  we  dare  not ;  you 
would  find  the  dungeon 


80  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  Part  II. 

Gave  late  repentance  ;  I  should  weep  away 
My  life  within  a  convent. 

jfuliaji.  Come  to  England, 

To  England,  Lilia. 

Lilia.  Men  w^ould  point,  and  say  : 

There  go  the  monk  a7id  his  wife  ;  if  they,  in  truth, 
Called  me  not  by  a  harder  name  than  that. 

yuliaii.  There  are  no  monks  in  England. 

Lilia.  But  will  that 

Make  right  what's  wrong  ? 

yulian.  Did  I  say  so,  my  Lilia  ? 

I  answered  but  your  last  objections  thus  ; 
I  had  a  different  answer  for  the  first. 

Lilia.  No,  no  ;  I  cannot,  cannot,  dare  not  do  it. 

Julian.  Lilia,    you   will    not    doubt    my    love  ;    you 
cannot. 
I  would  have  told  you  all  before,  but  thought. 
Foolishly,  you  would  feel  the  same  as  I  ;  — 
I  have  lived  longer,  thought  more,  seen  much  mo:e  ; 
I  would  not  hurt  your  body,  less  your  soul, 
For  all  the  blessedness  your  love  can  give : 
For  love's  sake  weigh  the  weight  of  what  I  say. 
Think  not  that  musl  be  right  which  you  have  heard 
From  infancy  —  it  may 


Scene  XVIII.    WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  8 1 

Enter  the  Steward  m  haste,  pale,  breathless,  and  bleeding. 
Steward.  My  lord,  there's  such    an    uproar  in   the 
town  ! 
They  call  you  murderer  and  heretic. 
The  officers  of  justice,  with  a  monk, 
And  the  new  Count  Nembroni,  accompanied 
By  a  fierce  mob  with  torches,  howling  out 
For  justice  on  you,  madly  cursing  you  ! 
They  caught  a  glimpse  of  me  as  I  returned. 
And  stones  and  sticks  flew  round  me  like  a  storm  ; 
But  I  escaped  them,  old  man  as  I  am. 
And  was  in  time  to  bar  the  castle-gates. 
Would  Heaven  we  had  not  cast  those  mounds,  and 

shut 
The  river  from  the  moat  !  \Distant  yells  and  cries. 

Escape,  my  lord ! 
yulian  (calmly).    Will  the  gates  hold  them  out  awhile, 
my  Joseph  ? 
Steward.    A  little  while,  my  lord  ;  but  those  damned 
torches  ! 
O  for  twelve  feet  of  water  round  the  walls  ! 

jfulian.  Leave  us,  good  Joseph ;  watch  them  from  a 
window, 


82  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  II. 

And  tell  us  of  their  progress. 

[Joseph  goes.     Sounds  approach. 
Farewell,  Lilia ! 
[Putting  his  arm  round  her.     She  stands  like  stone. 
Fear  of  a  coward's  name  shall  not  detain  me. 
My  presence  would  but  bring  down  evil  on  you, 
My  heart's  beloved  ;  yes,  all  the  ill  you  fear, 
The  terrible  things  that  you  have  imaged  out 
If  you  fled  with  me.     They  will  not  hurt  you, 
If  you  be  not  polluted  by  my  presence. 

[Light  from  without  flares  on  the  wall. 
They've  fired  the  gate.  [An  outburst  of  mingled  cries. 

Steward  {entering).  They've  fired  the  gate,  my  lord  ! 
yulian.      Well,    put    yourself  in    safety,    my   dear 
Joseph. 
You  and  old  Agata  tell  all  the  truth. 
And  they'll  forgive  you.     It  will  not  hurt  me  ; 
I  shall  be  safe  —  you  know  me  —  never  fear. 

Steward.  God  grant  it  may  be  so.     Farewell,  dear 
lord  1  U^  going. 

yulian.  But  add,  it  was  in  vain  ;  for  the  signora 
Would  not  consent ;  therefore  I  fled  alone. 

[Lilia  stands  as  before. 


Scene  XVIIL    WITHIN  AND  WITHOUT.  83 

Steward.  It  is  too  true.     Good-by  good-by,  my  mas- 
ter !  \Goes 
yulian.  Put  your  arms  round  me  once,  my  Lilia. 

What !  not  once  ?  not  once  at  parting  ? 

{^Rushing  feet  up  the  stairs,  and  along  the  galleries. 

O  God  !  farewell ! 

\He  clasps  her  to  his  heart ;  leaves  her  ;  pushes  back  the  panel, 

flings  open  the   door,   enters,  and  closes   them   behind. 

LiLlA  starts  suddenly  from  her  fixed  bewilderment,  and 

flies  after  him,  but  forgets  to  close   the  sliding  panel. 

Her  voice  from  the  i7tner  room,  calling. 

Lilia.  Julian  !  Julian  ! 

[  The  t7'ampling  of  feet  and  clamor  of  voices.  The  door  of 
the  room  is  flung  open.  Enter  the  foremost  of  the 
mob. 

\st.  I  was  sure  I  saw  light  here.  There  it  is,  burn- 
ing still. 

2d.  Nobody  here  !  Praise  the  devil !  he  minds  his 
own.     Look  under  the  bed,  Gian. 

3^.  Nothing  there. 

4M.  Another  door  !  Another  door  !  He'll  soon  be 
in  hell  if  he's  there.  {As  he  tries  to  open  the  door.) 
The  devil  had  better  leave  him,  to  make  up  the  fire  at 
home  —  he'll  be  cold  by  and  by.  {Rushes  into  the 
inner  room.)     Follow  me,  boys  !  {.The  rest  follow. 


84  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  Part  II. 

Voices  fi'oni  within.  I  have  him.  I  have  him. 
Curse  your  claws  !  Why  do  you  fix  on  me,  you  crab  ? 
You  won't  pick  up  the  fiend-spawn  so  easily,  I  can  tell 
you.  Bring  the  light  there,  will  you  ?  {^One  rims  out 
for  the  light.)  A  trap  !  a  trap  !  and  a  stair,  down  in 
the  wall !  the  hell-faggot's  gone  !  After  him,  after  him, 
like  storm-drift ! 

\Soiind  of  descending  footsteps.     Others  rush  in  with  torches 
and  follow. 

Scene  XIX.  —  The  river-side.     Lilia  seated  in  the  boat ;  Julian 
handing  her  the  bags. 

yuliafi.  There,  my  love  —  take  care,  —  'tis  heavy. 
Put  them  right  in  the  middle  of  the  boat : 
'Tis  excellent  ballast. 

\A  loud  shout.     He  steps  in  and  casts  the  chain  loose,  then 
pushes  gently  off. 

Look  how  the  torches  gleam 
Amongst  the  trees.     Thank  God,  we  have  escaped  ! 

\He  rows  swiftly  off.     The  to7'ches  cojtie  nea7'er,  with  cries  of 
search. 

{Ifi   a   loiv  tojie.)     Slip    down,    my    Lilia;    lie    at  full 
length 


Scene  XIX.      WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  85 

In  the  bottom  of  the  boat ;  your  dress  is  white, 

And  would  return  the  torches'  glare.     I  fear 

The  damp  night-air  will  hurt  you,  dressed  like  this. 

\PuUing  off  his  coat,  and  wrapping  her  iii  it. 

Now  for  a  strong  pull  with  my  muffled  oars  ! 
The  water  mutters  Spanish  in  its  sleep. 
My  beautiful !  my  bride  !  my  spirit's  wife  ! 
God-given,  and  God-restored  !  my  heart  exults, 
Dancing  round  thee,  my  beautiful !  my  soul ! 
Once  round  the  headland,  I  will  set  the  sail ; 
And  the  fair  wind  blows  right  adown  the  stream. 
Dear  wind,  dear  stream,  dear  stars,  dear  heart  of  all. 
White  angel  lying  in  my  little  boat ! 
Strange  that  my  boyhood's  skill  with  sail  and  helm. 
Oft  steering  safely  'twixt  the  winding  banks. 
Should  make  me  rich  with  womanhood  and  life  ! 

[  The  boat  disappears  round  the  headland.     Julian  singittg  in 
his  heart. 

SONG. 

Thou  hast  been  blowing  leaves,  O  wind  of  strife  ! 

Wan,  curled,  boat-like  leaves,  that  ran  and  fled  ; 
Unresting  yet,  though  folded  up  from  life  ; 

Sleepless,  though  cast  among  the  unwaking  dead. 
Out  to  the  ocean  fleet  and  float ; 
Blow,  blow  my  little  leaf-like  boat. 


86  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  II. 

O  wind  of  strife  !  to  us  a  wedding  wind  ! 
O  cover  me  with  kisses  of  her  mouth  ; 
Blow  thou  our  souls  together,  heart  and  mind  ; 
To  narrowing  northern  lines,  blow  from  the  south. 
Out  to  the  ocean  fleet  and  float ; 
Blow,  blow  my  little  leaf-like  boat. 

Thou  hast  been  blowing  many  a  drifting  thing 

From  circling  cove  down  to  the  unsheltered  sea  ; 
Thou  blowest  to  the  sea  my  blue  sail's  wing, 
Us  to  a  new  love-lit  futurity. 

Out  to  the  ocean  fleet  and  float. 
Blow,  blow  my  little  leaf-like  boat. 


END    OF    PART    II. 


WITHIN    AND   WITHOUr. 
PART  III. 

And  weep  not,  though  the  Beautiful  decay 
Within  thy  heart,  as  daily  in  thine  eyes  ; 
Thy  heart  must  have  its  autumn,  its  pale  skies, 

Leading,  mayhap,  to  winter's  dim  dismay. 

Yet  doubt  not.     Beauty  doth  not  pass  away  ; 
Her  form  departs  not,  though  her  body  dies. 
Secure  beneath  the  earth  the  snowdrop  lies, 

Waiting  the  spring's  young  resurrection-day, 

Through  the  kind  nurture  of  the  winter  cold. 
Nor  seek  thou  by  vain  effort  to  revive 
The  summer  time,  when  roses  were  alive  ; 

Do  thou  thy  work  —  be  willing  to  be  old  : 

Thy  sorrow  is  the  husk  that  doth  enfold 

A  gorgeous  June,  for  which  thou  need'st  not  strive. 


PART    III. 

Time  :     Five  years  later. 

Scene  I.  —  Night.  London.  A  large  meanly  fitrjtished  room  ; 
a  single  candle  on  the  table ;  a  child  asleep  in  a  little  crib. 
Julian  sits  by  the  table,  reading  in  a  lozv  voice  out  of  a  book. 
He  looks  older,  and  his  hair  is  lined  with  gray  ;  his  eyes  look 
clearer. 

Julian.    \  T  ^HAT  is  this  ?  let  me  see  ;  'tis  called 
^^         "The  Singer:" 

"Melchah  stood  looking  on  the  corpse  of  his  son,  and  spoke 
not.  At  length  he  broke  the  silence  and  said :  '  He  hath  told 
his  tale  to  the  Immortals.'  Abdiel,  the  friend  of  him  that  was 
dead,  asked  him  what  he  meant  by  the  words  ?  The  old  man, 
still  regarding  the  dead  body,  spake  as  follows  :  — 

"  Three  years  ago,  I  fell  asleep  on  the  summit  of  the  hill  Ya- 
rib  ;  and  there  I  dreamed  a  dream.  I  thought  I  lay  at  the  foot 
of  a  cliff,  near  the  top  of  a  great  mountain  ;  for  beneath  me  were 
the  clouds,  and  above  me,  the  heavens  deep  and  dark.  And  I 
heard  voices  sweet  and  strong  ;  and  I  lifted  up  my  eyes,  and  lo  ! 
over  against  me,  on  a  rocky  slope,  some  seated,  each  on  his  own 
crag,  some  reclining  between  the  fragments,  I  saw  a  hundred  ma- 
jestic forms,  as  of  men  who  had  striven  and  conquered.  Then 
I  heard  one  say  :  *  What  wouldst  thou  sing  unto  us,  young 
man  t '     A  youthful  voice  replied,  tremblingly  :  '  A  song  which 


90  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  Part  III. 

I  have  made  for  my  singing.'  *  Come,  then,  and  I  will  lead  thee 
to  the  hole  in  the  rock  :  enter  and  sing.'  From  the  assembly 
came  forth  one  whose  countenance  was  calm  unto  awfulness  ; 
but  whose  eyes  looked  in  love,  mingled  with  doubt,  on  the  face 
of  a  youth  whom  he  led  by  the  hand  towards  the  spot  where  I 
lay.  The  features  of  the  youth  I  could  not  discern ;  either  it 
was  the  indistinctness  of  a  dream,  or  I  was  not  permitted  to  be- 
hold them.  And  lo  !  behind  me  was  a  great  hole  in  the  rock, 
narrow  at  the  entrance,  but  deep  and  wide  within ;  and  when 
I  looked  into  it  I  shuddered ;  for  I  thought  I  saw,  far  down,  the 
glimmer  of  a  star.  The  youth  entered  and  vanished.  His  guide 
strode  back  to  his  seat,  and  I  lay  in  terror  near  the  mouth  of  the 
vast  cavern.  When  I  looked  up  once  more,  I  saw  all  the  men 
leaning  forward,  with  head  aside,  as  if  listening  intently  to  a  far- 
off  sound.  I  likewise  listened  ;  but  though  much  nearer  than 
they,  I  heard  nothing  ;  but  I  could  see  their  faces  change,  like 
waters  in  a  windy  and  half-cloudy  day.  Sometimes,  though  I 
heard  nought,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  one  sighed  and  prayed  be- 
side me ;  and  once  I  heard  a  clang  of  music  triumphant  in  hope  ; 
but  I  looked  up,  and  lo  !  it  was  the  listeners  who  stood  on  their 
feet  and  sang.  They  ceased,  sat  down,  and  listened  as  before. 
At  last  one  approached  me,  and  I  ventured  to  question  him. 
*  Sir,'  I  said,  *  wilt  thou  tell  me  what  it  means .'' '  And  he  an- 
swered me  thus  :  '  The  youth  desired  to  sing  to  the  Immortals. 
It  is  a  law  with  us  that  no  one  shall  sing  a  song  who  cannot  be 
the  hero  of  his  tale  —  who  cannot  live  the  song  that  he  sings  ; 
for  what  right  hath  he  else  to  devise  great  things,  and  to  take 
holy  deeds  in  his  mouth  ?  Therefore  he  enters  the  cavern  where 
God  weaves  the  garments  of  souls,  and  there  he  lives  in  the 
forms  of  his  own  tale  ;  for  God  gives  them  being  that  he  may  be 
tried.  The  sighs  which  thou  didst  hear  were  his  longings  after 
his  own  Ideal  ;  and  thou  didst  hear  him  praying  for  the  Truth 
he  beheld,  but  could  not  reach.  We  sang,  because  in  his  first 
great  battle,  he  strove  well  and  overcame.     We  await  the  next.' 


Scene  I.  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  91 

A  deep  sleep  seemed  to  fall  upon  me  ;  and  when  I  awoke,  I  saw 
the  Immortals  standing  with  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  mouth  of 
the  cavern.  I  arose  and  turned  towards  it  likewise.  The  youth 
came  forth.  His  face  was  worn  and  pale,  as  that  of  the  dead 
man  before  me  ;  but  his  eyes  were  open,  and  tears  trembled 
within  them.  Yet  not  the  less  was  it  the  same  face,  the  face 
of  my  son,  I  tell  thee  ;  and  in  joy  and  fear  I  gazed  upon  him. 
With  a  weary  step  he  approached  the  Immortals.  But  he  who 
had  led  him  to  the  cave  hastened  to  meet  him,  spread  forth  his 
arms  and  embraced  him,  and  said  umo  him  :  '  Thou  hast  told 
a  noble  tale  ;  sing  to  us  now  what  songs  thou  wilt.'  Therefore 
said  I,  as  I  gazed  on  my  son  :  '  He  hath  told  his  tale  to  the 
Immortals.'  " 

[He  puts  the  book  dorvn  ;  meditates  awhile  ;  then  rises  and 
walks  up  and  down  the  room. 

And  so  five  years  have  poured  their  silent  streams, 
Flowing  from  fountains  in  eternity, 
Into  my  soul,  which,  as  an  infinite  gulf. 
Hath  swallowed  them  ;  whose  living  caves  they  feed  ; 
And  time  to  spirit  grows,  transformed  and  kept. 
And    now    the    day   draws    nigh   when    Christ   was 

born  ; 
The  day  that  showed  how  like  to  God  himself 
Man  had  been  made,  since  God  could  be  revealed 
By  one  that  was  a  man  with  men,  and  still 
Was  one  with  God  the  Father  ;  that  men  might 
By  drawing  nigh  to  Him  draw  nigh  to  God, 


92  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  Part  III. 

Who  had  come  near  to  them  in  tenderness. 

0  God  !     I  thank  thee  for  the  friendly  eye, 
That  oft  hath  opened  on  me  these  five  years  ; 
Thank  thee  for  those  enhghtenings  of  my  spirit, 
That  let  me  know  thy  thought  was  towards  me  ; 
Those  moments  fore-enjoyed  from  future  years, 
Telling  what  converse  I  should  hold  with  God. 

1  thank  thee  for  the  sorrow  and  the  care, 

Through  which  they  gleamed,  bright  phosphorescent 

sparks 
Crushed  from  the  troubled  waters,  borne  on  which 
Through  mist  and  dark  my  soul  draws  nigh  to  thee. 
Five  years  ago,  I  prayed  in  agony 
That  thou  wouldst  speak  to  me.     Thou  wouldst  not 

then. 
With  that  close  speech  I  craved  so  hungrily. 
Thy  inmost  speech  is  heart  embracing  heart ; 
And  thou  wert  all  the  time  instructing  me 
To  know  the  language  of  thy  inmost  speech. 
I  thought  thou  didst  refuse,  when  every  hour 
Thou  spakest  every  word  my  heart  could  hear, 
Though  oft  I  did  not  know  it  was  thy  voice. 
My  prayer  arose  from  lonely  wastes  of  soul  ; 


Scene  I.  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  93 

As  if  a  world  far-off  in  depths  of  space, 

Chaotic,  had  implored  that  it  might  shine 

Straightway  in  sunlight  as  the  morning  star. 

My  soul  must  be  more  pure,  ere  it  could  hold 

With  thee  communion.     'Tis  the  pure  in  heart 

That  shall  see  God.     As  if  a  well  that  lay 

Unvisited,  till  water-weeds  had  grown 

Up  from  its  depths,  and  woven  a  thick  mass 

Over  its  surface,  could  give  back  the  sun  ! 

Or,  dug  from  ancient  battle-plain,  a  shield 

Could  be  a  mirror  to  the  stars  of  heaven  ! 

And  though  I  am  not  yet  come  near  to  Him, 

I  know  I  am  more  nigh  ;  and  am  content 

To  walk  a  long  and  weary  road  to  find 

My  Father's  house  once  more.     Well  may  it  be 

A  long  and  weary  —  I  had  wandered  far. 

My  God,  I  thank  thee,  thou  dost  care  for  me. 

I  am  content,  rejoicing  to  go  on, 

Even  when  my  home  seems  very  far  away  ; 

For  over  grief,  and  aching  emptiness. 

And  fading  hopes,  a  higher  joy  arises. 

In  cloudiest  nights,  one  lonely  spot  is  bright. 

High  overhead,  through  folds  and  folds  of  space  ; 


94  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  Part  III. 

It  is  the  earnest-star  of  all  my  heavens  ; 
And  tremulous  in  the  deep  well  of  my  being 
Its  image  answers,  gazing  eagerly. 

Alas,  my  Lilia  !     But  I'll  think  of  Jesus, 
Not  of  thee  now  ;  Him  who  hath  led  my  soul 
Thus  far  upon  its  journey  home  to  God. 
By  poor  attempts  to  do  the  things  He  said, 
Faith  has  been  born  ;  free  will  become  a  fact  ; 
And  love  grown  strong  to  enter  into  his, 
And  know  the  spirit  that  inhabits  there. 
One  day  his  truth  will  spring  to  life  in  me, 
And  make  me  free,  as  God  says  "  I  am  free." 
When  I  am  like  Him,  then  my  soul  will  dawn 
With  the  full  glory  of  the  God  revealed  — 
Full  as  to  me,  though  but  one  beam  from  Him  ; 
The  light  will  shine,  for  I  shall  comprehend  it : 
In  his  light  I  shall  see  light.     God  can  speak, 
Yea,  will  speak  to  me  then,  and  I  shall  hear. 
Not  yet  like  Him,  how  can  I  hear  his  words  ? 

[Stopping  by  the  crib,  and  bending  over  the  child. 

My  darling  child  !  God's  little  daughter,  drest 
In  human  clothes,  that  light  may  thus  be  clad 
In  shining,  so  to  reach  my  human  eyes  ! 


Scene  I.  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  95 

Come  as  a  little  Christ  from  heaven  to  earth, 

To  call  me  father,  that  my  heart  may  know 

Wh-aX  father  means,  and  turn  its  eyes  to  God  ! 

Sometimes  I  feel,  when  thou  art  clinging  to  me, 

How  all  unfit  this  heart  of  mine  to  have 

The  guardianship  of  a  bright  thing  like  thee, 

Come  to  entice,  allure  me  back  to  God 

By  flitting  round  me,  gleaming  of  thy  home, 

And  radiating  of  thy  purity 

Into  my  stained  heart ;  which  unto  thee 

Shall  ever  show  the  father,  answering 

The  divine  childhood  dwelling  in  thine  eyes. 

O  how  thou  teachest  me  with  thy  sweet  ways, 

All  ignorant  of  wherefore  thou  art  come. 

And  what  thou  art  to  me,  my  heavenly  ward. 

Whose  eyes  have  drunk  that  secret  place's  light, 

And  pour  it  forth  on  me  !     God  bless  his  own  ! 

\^He  resumes  his  walk,  singing  in  a  low  voice 


My  child  woke  crying  from  her  sleep  : 

I  bended  o'er  her  bed, 
And  soothed  her,  till  in  slumber  deep 

She  from  the  darkness  fled. 


g6  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  III. 

And  as  beside  my  child  I  stood, 
A  still  voice  said  in  me,  — 
"  Even  thus  thy  Father,  strong  and  good, 
Is  bending  over  thee." 

Scene  II. — Rooms  in  Lord Seaford^s  house.     A  large  company: 
dancers  ;  gentlemen  looking  07t. 

isl  GeJitkmati.  Henry,  what   dark-haired    queen  is 
that  ?     She  moves 
As  if  her  body  were  instinct  with  thought, 
Moulded  to  motion  by  the  music's  waves, 
As  floats  the  swan  upon  the  swelling  lake ; 
Or  as  in  dreams  one  sees  an  angel  move, 
Sweeping  on  slow  wings  through  the  buoyant  air. 
Then  folding  them,  and  turning  on  his  track. 

2d.  You  seem  inspired  ;  nor  can  I  wonder  at  it ; 
She  is  a  glorious  woman  ;  and  such  eyes  ! 
Think  —  to  be  loved  by  such  a  woman  now  ! 

\st.  You  have  seen  her,  then,  before ;  what  is  her 
name  ? 

2d.  I  saw  her  once  ;  but  could  not  learn  her  name. 

3^.   She  is  the  wife  of  an  Italian  count, 
Who  for  some  cause,  political  I  think. 
Took  refuge  in  this  country.     His  estates 
The  Church  has  eaten  up,  as  I  have  heard : 
Mephisto  says  the  Church  has  a  good  stomach. 


Scene  III.  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  97 

2d.  How  do  they  live  ? 

3^.  Poorly,  I  should  suppose  ; 

For  she  gives  Lady  Gertrude  music-lessons  : 
That's  how  they  know  her.     Ah,  you  should  hear  her 
sing! 

2d.  If  she  sings  as  she  looks,  or  as  she  dances, 
It  were  as  well  for  me  I  did  not  hear. 

3^.  If  Count  Lamballa  followed  Lady  Seaford 
To  heaven,  I  know  who'd  follow  her  on  earth. 

Scene  III.  —  Julian's  rootjt.     Julian  ;  Lily  asleep. 

yulian.  I  wish  she  would  come  home.     When  the 
child  wakes, 
I  cannot  bear  to  see  her  eyes  first  rest 
On  me,  then  wander  searching  through  the  room  ; 
And  then  return  and  rest.     And  yet,  poor  Lilia  ! 
'Tis  nothing  strange  thou  shouldst  be  glad  to  go 
From  this  dull  place,  and  for  a  few  short  hours 
Have  thy  lost  girlhood  given  back  to  thee ; 
For  thou  art  very  young  for  such  hard  things 
As  poor  men's  wives  in  cities  must  endure. 

I  am  afraid  the  thought  is  not  at  rest, 


98  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  Part  III. 

But  rises  still,  that  she  is  not  my  wife  — 
Not  truly,  lawfully.     I  hoped  the  child 
Would  kill  that  fancy ;  but  I  fear  instead, 
She  thinks  I  have  begun  to  think  the  same  — 
Thinks  that  it  lies  a  heavy  weight  of  sin 
Upon  my  heart.     Alas,  my  Lilia  ! 
When  every  time  I  pray,  I  pray  that  God 
Would  look  and  see  that  thou  and  I  be  one  ! 

Lily  {starting  up  in  her  crib).     O,  take  me  !    take 

me  ! 
yulian  {going  up  to  her  with  a  smile).   What  is  the 

matter  with  my  little  child  ? 
Lily.  I  don't  know,  father ;  I  was  very  frightened. 
yulian.   'Twas  nothing  but  a  dream.     Look  —  I  am 

with  you. 
Lily.  I  am    wake  now  ;  I  know  you're  there  ;    but 
then 
I  did  not  know  it.  \Smiling. 

yulian.     Lie    down,    then,    darling.     Go    to    sleep 

again. 
Lily  {beseechingly').  Not  yet.     I  will  not  go  to  sleep 
again  ; 
It  makes  me  So,  so  frightened.     Take  me  up, 


Scene  in.  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  99 

And  let  me  sit  upon  your  knee.     Where's  mother  ? 
I  cannot  see  her. 

yuUan.  She's  not  at  home,  my  child  ; 

But  soon  she  will  be  back. 

Lily.  But  if  she  walk 

Out  in  the  dark  streets  — so  dark^  it  will  catch  her. 
yulian.  She  will  not  walk  ;  —  but  what  would  catch 

her,  sweet  ? 
Lily.     I    don't   know.     Tell    me    a   story    till    she 

comes. 
yulian  {taking  her,  and  sitting  with  her  on  his  knees 
by  the  fire).  Come  then,  my  little  Lily,  — 
I  will  tell  you 
A  story  I  have  read  this  very  night. 

\She  looks  in  his  face. 
There  was  a  man  who  had  a  little  boy, 
And  when  the  boy  grew  big,  he  went  and  asked 
His  father  to  give  him  a  purse  of  money. 
His  father  gave  him  such  a  large  purse  full !    . 
And  then  he  went  away  and  left  his  home. 
You  see  he  did  not  love  his  father  much. 

Lily.  O  !   didn't  he  ?      If  he  had   he  wouldn't  have 
gone. 


100  WITHIN  AND  WITHOUT.  Part  III. 

yulian.  Away  he  went,  far,  far  away  he  went, 
Until  he  could  not  even  spy  the  top 
Of  the  great  mountain  by  his  father's  house. 
And  still  he  went  away,  away,  as  if 
He  tried  how  far  his  feet  could  go  away ; 
Until  he  came  to  a  city  huge  and  wide, 
Like  London  here. 

Lily.  Perhaps  it  was  London. 

yulian.  Perhaps  it  was,  my  child.     And   there  he 
spent 
All,  all  his  father's  money,  buying  things 
That  he  had  always  told  him  were  not  worth, 
And  not  to  buy  them  ;  but  he  would  and  did. 

Lily.  How  very  naughty  of  him  ! 

yulian.  Yes,  my  child. 

And  so  when  he  had  spent  his  last  few  pence. 
He  grew  quite  hungry.     But  he  had  none  left 
To  buy  a  piece  of  bread.     And  bread  was  scarce  ; 
Nobody  gave  him  any.     He  had  been 
Always  so  idle,  that  he  could  not  work. 
But  at  last  some  one  sent  him  to  feed  swine. 

Lily.  Swine! 

yulian.  Yes,  swine:  'twas  all  that  he  could  Ao  \ 


Scene  III.         WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  lOI 

And  he  was  glad  to  eat  some  of  their  food. 

\_She  stares  at  him. 
But  at  the  last,  hunger  and  waking  love 
Made  him  remember  his  old  happy  home. 
"  How  many  servants  in  my  father's  house 
Have  plenty,  and  to  spare  !  "  he  said.     ""  I'll  go 
And  say,  '  I  have  done  very  wrong,  my  father  ; 
I  am  not  worthy  to  be  called  your  son  ; 
Put  me  among  your  servants,  father,  please.'  " 
Then  he  rose  up  and  went ;  but  thought  the  road 
So  much,  much  farther  to  walk  back  again, 
When  he  was  tired  and  hungry.     But  at  last 
He  saw  the  blue  top  of  the  great  big  hill 
That  stood  beside  his  father's  house ;  and  then 
He  walked  much  faster.     But  a  great  way  off, 
His  father  saw  him  coming,  lame  and  weary 
With  his  long  walk  ;  and  very  different 
From  what  he  had  been.     All  his  clothes  were  hang- 
ing 
In  tatters,  and  his  toes  stuck  through  his  shoes  — 

[She  hirsts  into  tears. 

Lily  {sobbing).  Like  that  poor  beggar  I  saw  yester- 
day ? 


102  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  III. 

yulian.  Yes,  my  dear  child. 

Lily.  And  was  he  dirty,  too  ? 

Julian.  Yes,    very   dirty;    he    had    been    so    long 
Among  the  swine. 

Lily.  Is  it  all  true  though,  father  ? 

jfuliaii.  Yes,  my  darling  :  all  true,  and  truer  far 
Than  you  can  think. 

Lily.  What  was  his  father  like  ? 

yulian.  A  tall,  grand,  stately  man. 

Lily.  Like  you,  dear  father  ? 

Julian.  Like  me,  only  much  grander. 

Lily.  I  love  you 

The  best  though.  [Kissing  him. 

Julian.  Well,  all  dirty  as  he  was, 

And  thin,  and  pale,  and  torn,  with  staring  eyes, 
His  father  knew  him,  the  first  look,  far  off, 
And  ran  so  fast  to  meet  him  !  put  his  arms 
Around  his  neck  and  kissed  him. 

Lily.  O,  how  dear  ! 

I  love  him  too  ;  —  but  not  so  well  as  you. 

{Sound  of  a  carriage  drawing  up. 

Julian.  There  is  your  mother. 

Lily.  I  am  glad,  so  glad  1 


Scene  IV.  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  103 

Enter  LiLlA,  looking  pale. 
Lilia,  You  naughty  child,  why  are  you  not  in  bed  ? 
Lily  {pouting),     I  am  not  naughty.     I  am  afraid  to 

go, 
Because  you  don't  go  with  me  into  sleep ; 
And  when  I  see  things,  and  you  are  not  there, 
Nor  father,  I  am  so  frightened,  I  cry  out. 
And  stretch  my  hands,  and  so  I  come  awake. 
Come  with  me  into  sleep,  dear  mother ;    come. 
Lilia.  What  a  strange  child  it  is  1     There, 

{kissing  her)  go  to  bed.  {Laying her  down. 

Julian  {gazing  on  the  child).     As   thou   art  in   thy 

dreams  without  thy  mother. 
So  are  we  lost  in  life  without  our  God. 

Scene  IV.  —  Lilia  in  bed.  The  room  lighted  from  a  gas-lamp  in 
the  street ;  the  bright  shadow  of  the  window  on  the  wall  and 
ceiling. 

Lilia.  O,  it  is  dreary,  dreary  !     All  the  time 
My  thoughts  would  wander  to  my  dreary  home. 
Through  every  dance,  my  soul  walked  evermore 
In  a  most  dreary  dance  through  this  same  room. 
I  saw  these  walls,  this  carpet ;  and  I  heard, 
As  now,  his  measured  step  in  the  next  chamber, 


I04  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  III 

Go  pacing  up  and  down,  and  I  shut  out ! 

He  is  too  good  for  me,  I  weak  for  him. 

Yet  if  he  put  his  arms  around  me  once, 

And  held  me  fast  as  then,  kissed  me  as  then, 

My  soul,  I  think,  would  come  again  to  me, 

And  pass  from  me  in  trembling  love  to  him. 

But  he  repels  me  now.     He  loves  me,  true,  — ■ 

Because  I  am  his  wife  :   he  ought  to  love  me  ; 

Me,  the  cold  statue,  thus  he  drapes  with  duty. 

Sometimes  he  waits  upon  me  like  a  maid. 

Silent  with  watchful  eyes.     O  !  would  to  Heaven, 

He  used  me  like  a  slave  bought  in  the  market ! 

Yes,  used  me  roughly !     So,  I  were  his  own  ; 

And  words  of  tenderness  would  falter  in. 

Relenting  from  the  sternness  of  command. 

But  I  am  not  enough  for  him  :  he  needs 

Some  high-entranced  maiden,  ever  pure, 

And  thronged  with  burning  thoughts  of  God  and  him. 

So,  as  he  loves  me  not,  his  deeds  for  me 

Lie  on  me  like  a  sepulchre  of  stones. 

Italian  lovers  love  not  so  ;  but  he 

Has  German  blood  in  those  great  veins  of  his. 

He  never  brings  me  now  a  little  flower. 


Scene  IV.  WITHIN  AND  WITHOUT.  105 

He  sings  low  wandering  sweet  songs  to  the  child  ; 
But  never  sings  to  me  what  the  voice-bird 
Sings  to  the  silent,  sitting  on  the  nest. 
I  would  I  were  his  child,  and  not  his  wife  ! 
How  I  should  love  him  then !     Yet  I  have  thoughts 
Fit  to  be  women  to  his  mighty  men  ; 
And  he  would  love  them,  if  he  saw  them  once. 
Ah,  there  they  come,  the  visions  of  my  land ! 
The  long  sweep  of  a  bay,  white  sands,  and  cliffs 
Purple  above  the  blue  waves  at  their  feet. 
Down  the  full  river  comes  a  light-blue  sail ; 
And  down  the  near  hill-side  come  country  girls, 
Brown,  rosy,  laden  light  with  glowing  fruits  ; 
Down  to  the  sands  come  ladies,  young,  and  clad 
For  holiday  3  in  whose  hearts  wonderment 
At  manhood  is  the  upmost,  deepest  thought ; 
And  to  their  side  come  stately,  youthful  forms, 
Italy's  youth,  with  burning  eyes  and  hearts  : 
Triumphant  Love  is  lord  of  the  bright  day. 
Yet  one  heart,  under  that  blue  sail,  would  look 
With  pity  on  their  poor  contentedness  ; 
For  he  sits  at  the  helm,  I  at  his  feet. 
He  sung  a  song,  and  I  replied  to  him. 


I06  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.      .     Part  III 

His  song  was  of  the  wind  that  blew  us  down 

From  sheltered  hills  to  the  unsheltered  sea. 

Ah  !  Uttle  thought  my  heart  that  the  wide  sea, 

Where  I  should  cry  for  comforting  in  vain, 

Was  the  expanse  of  his  wide  awful  soul, 

To  which  that  wind  was  helpless  drifting  me  ! 

I  would  he  were  less  great,  and  loved  me  more. 

I  sung  to  him  a  song,  broken  with  sighs. 

For  even  then  I  feared  the  time  to  come  : 

"  O  will  thine  eyes  shine  always,  love,  as  now  ? 

And  will  thy  lips  for  aye  be  sweetly  curved  .'*  " 

Said  my  song,  flowing  un rhymed  from  my  heart. 

"  And  will  thy  forehead,  ever,  sunlike,  bend, 

And  suck  my  soul  in  vapors  up  to  thee  ? 

Ah  love !  I  need  love,  beauty,  and  sweet  odors. 

Thou  livest  on  the  hoary  mountains  ;  I 

In  the  warm  valley,  with  the  lily  pale. 

Shadowed  with  mountains  and  its  own  great  leaves  ; 

Where  odors  are  the  sole  invisible  clouds 

Making  the  heart  weep  for  deliciousness. 

Will  thy  eternal  mountain  always  bear 

Blue  flowers  upspringing  at  the  glacier's  foot  ? 

Alas  !  I  fear  the  storms,  the  blinding  snow, 


Scene  V.  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  107 

The  vapors  which  thou  gatherest  round  thy  head. 
Wherewith  thou  shuttest  up  thy  chamber-door. 
And  goest  from  me  into  loneliness." 
Ah  me,  my  song  !  it  is  a  song  no  more  ! 
He  is  alone  amidst  his  windy  rocks  ; 
I  wandering  on  a  low  and  dreary  plain  ! 

[She  weeps  herself  asleep. 

Scene  V.  —  Lord  Seaford,  alternately  writing  at  a  table  and 
composing  at  his  pianoforte. 

SONG. 

Eyes  of  beauty,  eyes  of  light, 
Sweetly,  softly,  sadly  bright ! 
Draw  not,  ever,  o'er  my  eye, 
Radiant  mists  of  ecstasy. 

Be  not  proud,  O  glorious  orbs  ! 
Not  your  mystery  absorbs  ; 
But  the  starry  soul  that  lies 
Looking  through  your  night  of  eyes. 

One  moment,  be  less  perfect,  sweet ; 

Sin  once  in  something  small ; 
One  fault  to  lift  me  on  my  feet 

From  love's  too  perfect  thrall  ! 

For  now  I  have  no  soul ;  a  sea 

Fills  up  my  caverned  brain. 
Heaving  in  silent  waves  to  thee, 

The  mistress  of  that  main. 


I08  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  Part  III. 

O  angel  !  take  my  hand  in  thine ; 

Unfold  thy  shining  silver  wings  ; 
Spread  them  around  thy  face  and  mine, 

Close  curtained  in  their  murmurings. 

But  I  should  faint  with  too  much  bliss 

To  be  alone  in  space  with  thee  ; 
Except,  O  dread  !  one  angel-kiss 

In  sweetest  death  should  set  me  free. 

0  beauteous  devil,  tempt  me,  tempt  me  on, 
Till  thou  hast  won  my  soul  in  sighs  ; 

I'll  smile  with  thee  upon  thy  flaming  throne. 
If  thou  wilt  keep  those  eyes. 

And  if  the  moanings  of  untold  desires 

Should  charm  thy  pain  of  one  faint  sting ; 

1  will  arise  amid  the  scorching  fires, 
I  will  arise  and  sing. 

O  what  is  God  to  me  ?     He  sits  apart 

Amidst  the  clear  stars,  passionless  and  cold. 

Divine  !  thou  art  enough  to  fill  my  heart ; 
O  fold  me  in  thy  heaven,  sweet  love,  enfold. 

With  too  much  life,  I  fall  before  thee  dead. 

With  holding  thee,  my  sense  consumes  in  storm. 
Thou  art  too  keen  a  flame,  too  hallowed 

For  any  temple  but  thy  holy  form. 


Scene  VI.  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  109 

Scene   VI. — Julianas    room  next  morning;    no  fire.     JULIAN 
stands  at  the  window,  lookijig  into  a  London  fog. 

yulian.  And  there  are  mountains  on  the  earth,  far- 
off; 
Steep  precipices  laved  at  morn  in  wind 
From  the  blue  glaciers  fresh  ;  and  falls  that  leap, 
Springing  from  rock  to  pool  abandonedly  ; 
And  all  the  spirit  of  the  earth  breathed  out, 
Bearing  the  soul,  as  on  an  altar-flame. 
Aloft  to  God.     And  there  is  woman-love  — 
Far  off,  ah  me  !  ^Sitting  dozvn  wearily. 

The  heart  of  earth's  delight 
Withered  from  mine  !     O  for  a  desert  sea, 
The  cold  sun  flashing  on  the  sailing  icebergs  ! 
Where  I  might  cry  aloud  on  God,  until 
My  soul  burst  forth  upon  the  wings  of  pain 
And  fled  to  Him.     A  numbness  as  of  death 
Enfolds  me.     As  in  sleep  I  walk.     I  live. 
But  my  dull  soul  can  hardly  keep  awake. 
Yet  God  is  here  as  on  the  mountain-top, 
Or  on  the  desert  sea,  or  lonely  isle  ; 
And  I  should  know  Him  here,  if  Lilia  loved  me, 


no  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  III 

As  once  I  thought  she  did.     But  can  I  blame  her  ? 

The  change  has  been  too  much  for  her  to  bear. 

Can  poverty  make  one  of  two  hearts  cold, 

And  warm  the  other  with  the  love  of  God  ? 

But  then  I  have  been  silent,  often  moody, 

Drowned  in  much  questioning ;  and  she  has  thought 

That  I  was  tired  of  her,  while  more  than  all 

I  pondered  how  to  wake  her  living  soul. 

She  cannot  think  why  I  should  haunt  my  chamber, 

Except  a  goaded  conscience  were  my  grief ; 

Thinks  not  of  aught  to  gain,  but  all  to  shun. 

Deeming,  poor  child,  that  I  repent  me  thus 

Of  that  which  makes  her  mine  for  evermore, 

It  is  no  wonder  if  her  love  grow  less. 

Then  I  am  older  much  than  she  ;  and  this 

Fever,  I  think,  has  made  me  old  indeed 

Before  my  fortieth  year ;  although,  within, 

I  seem  as  young  as  ever  to  myself. 

O  my  poor  Lilia  !  thou  art  not  to  blame  ; 

I'll  love  thee  more  than  ever  ;  I  will  be 

So  gentle  to  thy  heart  where  love  lies  dead  ! 

For  carefully  men  ope  the  door,  and  walk 

With  silent  footfall  through  the  room  where  lies, 


Scene  VI.  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Ill 

Exhausted,  sleeping,  with  its  travail  sore, 
The  body  that  erewhile  hath  borne  a  spirit. 
A-las,  my  Lilia  !  where  is  dead  Love's  child  ? 

I  must  go  forth  and  do  my  daily  work. 
I  thank  thee,  God,  that  it  is  hard  sometimes 
To  do  my  daily  labor;  for,  of  old, 
When  men  were  poor,  and  could  not  bring  thee  much, 
A  turtle-dove  was  all  that  thou  didst  ask  ; 
And  so  in  poverty,  and  with  a  heart 
Oppressed  with  heaviness,  I  try  to  do 
My  day's  work  well  to  thee,  —  my  offering : 
That  He  has  taught  me,  who  one  day  sat  weary 
At  Sychar's  well.     Then  home  when  I  return, 
I  come  without  upbraiding  thoughts  to  thee. 
Ah !  well  I  see  man  need  not  seek  for  penance  — 
Thou  wilt  provide  the  lamb  for  sacrifice  ; 
Thou  only  wise  enough  to  teach  the  soul. 
Measuring  out  the  labor  and  the  grief. 
Which  it  must  bear  for  thy  sake,  not  its  own. 
He  neither  chose  his  glory,  nor  devised 
The  burden  He  should  bear  ;  left  all  to  God  ; 
And  of  them  both  God  gave  to  Him  enough. 
And  see  the  sun  looks  faintly  through  the  mist ; 


112  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  Part  III. 

It  Cometh  as  a  messenger  to  me. 
My  soul  is  heavy,  but  I  will  go  forth  ; 
My  days  seem  perishing,  but  God  yet  lives 
And  loves.     I  cannot  feel,  but  will  believe 

[i%  rises  and  is  going.     LiLiA  enters,  looking  weary. 
<jOok,  my  dear  Lilia,  how  the  sun  shines  out ! 

Lilia.  Shines  out  indeed  !     Yet  'tis  not  bad  for  Eng- 
land. 
I  would  I  were  in  Italy,  my  own  !  [Weeps. 

yulian.  'Tis  the  same  sun  that  shines  in  Italy. 

Lilia.  But  never  more  will  shine  upon  us  there. 
It  is  too  late  ;  all  wishing  is  in  vain  ! 
But  would  that  we  had  not  so  ill  deserved 
As  to  be  banished  from  fair  Italy  ! 

yulian.  Ah  !  my  dear  Lilia,  do  not,  do  not  think 
That  God  is  angry  when  we  suffer  ill. 
'Twere  terrible  indeed,  if  'twere  in  anger. 

Lilia.  Julian,  I  cannot  feel  as  3'ou.     I  wish 
I  felt  as  you  feel. 

yulian.  God  will  hear  you,  child, 

If  you  will  speak  to  Him.     But  I  must  go. 
Kiss  me,  my  Lilia. 

\She  kisses  him  mechanically.     He  goes  mith  a  sigh 


Scene  VII.        WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  1 13 

Lilia.  It  is  plain  to  see 

He  tries  to  love  me,  but  is  weary  of  me.  \she  weeps. 

Enter  Lily. 
Lily.    Mother,  have  you    been   naughty.?     Mother, 
dear  !  \Pulling  her  hand  from  her  face. 

Scene  VII. — Jidiajt's  room.      Noon.     Lilia  at  work;    Lily 
playing  in  a  closet. 

Lily   {rimnitig  up  to  ker  mother).   Sing  me  a  little 
song  ;  please,  mother  dear. 

[Lilia,  looking  off  her  work.,  and  thinking  with  fixed  eyes 
for  a  few  T?iOf?ients,  sings. 

SONG, 

Once  I  was  a  child, 

Oime  ! 
Full  of  frolic  wild  ; 

Oime  ! 
All  the  stars  for  glancing, 
All  the  earth  for  dancing ; 

Oime  !    Oime  ] 

When  I  ran  about, 

Oime  ! 
All  the  flowers  came  out, 

Oime  ! 
Here  and  there  like  stray  things, 
Just  to  be  my  playthings. 

Oime  !    Oime  ! 
8 


114  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  III. 

Mother's  eyes  were  deep, 

Oime  ! 
Never  needing  sleep, 

Oime  ! 
Morning — they're  above  me  ! 
Eventide  —  they  love  me  ! 

Oime  !    Oime  ! 


Father  was  so  tall  ! 

Oime  ! 
Stronger  he  than  all  ! 

Oime  ! 
On  his  arm  he  bore  me, 
Queen  of  all  before  me. 

Oime  !    Oime  ! 

Mother  is  asleep : 

Oime  ! 
For  her  eyes  so  deep, 

Oime  ! 
Grew  so  tired  and  aching, 
They  could  not  keep  waking. 

Oime!    Oime! 

Father,  though  so  strong, 

Oime  ! 
Laid  him  down  along  — 

Oime  ! 
By  my  mother  sleeping  ; 
And  they  left  me  weeping, 

Oime  !   Oim^  ! 


Scene  VIII.       WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  I15 

Now  nor  bird,  nor  bee, 

Oime  ! 
Ever  sings  to  me ! 

Oime  ! 
Since  they  left  me  crying, 
All  things  have  been  dying. 

Oime  !    Oime  ! 


[Lily  looks  long  in  her  mother's  face,  as  if  wondering  what 
the  song  could  be  about ;  then  turns  away  to  the  closet. 
After  a  little  she  comes  running  with  a  box  in  her  hand. 

Lily.    O  mother,  mother  !  there's  the  old  box  I  had 
So  long  ago,  and  all  my  cups  and  saucers, 
And  the  farm-house  and  cows.     O,  some  are  broken. 
Father  will  mend  them  for  me,  I  am  sure. 
I'll  ask  him  when  he  comes  to  night  —  I  will : 
He  can  do  everything,  you  know^  dear  mother. 

Scene  VIII.  —  A  merchants  countijig-house.     Julian  preparing 
to  go  home. 

Julian.    I   would  not  give  these  days  of  common 
toil, 
This  murky  atmosphere  that  creeps  and  sinks 
Into  the  very  soul,  and  mars  its  hue  — 
Not  for  the  evenings  when  with  gliding  keel 
I  cut  a  pale-green  track  across  the  west  — 


Il6  WITPIIN  AND   WITHOUT.  Part  HI. 

Pale-green,  and  dashed  with  snowy  white,  and  spotted 

With  sunset  crimson  ;  when  the  wind  breathed  low. 

So  low  it  hardly  swelled  my  xebec's  sails, 

That  pointed  to  the  south,  and  wavered  not, 

Erect  upon  the  waters.       Jesus  said 

His  followers  should  have  a  hundred  fold 

Of  earth's  most  precious  things,  with  suffering. 

In  all  the  laborings  of  a  weary  spirit, 

I  have  been  bless'd  with  gleams  of  glorious  things. 

The  sights  and  sounds  of  nature  touch  my  soul, 

N'o  more  look  in  from  far.     I  never  see 

Such  radiant,  filmy  clouds,  gathered  about 

A  gently  opening  eye  into  the  blue. 

But  swells  m}'-  heart,  and  bends  my  sinking  knee, 

Bowing  in  prayer.     The  setting  sun,  before, 

Signed  only  that  the  hour  for  prayer  was  come, 

Where  now  it  moves  my  inmost  soul  to  pray. 

On  this  same  earth  He  walked  ;  even  thus  He  looked 
Upon  its  thousand  glories  ;  read  them  all  ; 
In  splendor  let  them  pass  on  through  his  soul, 
And  triumph  in  their  new  beatitude, 
Finding  a  heaven  of  truth  to  take  them  in  ; 
But  walked  on  steadily  through  pain  to  death. 


Scene  IX.         .WITHIN  AND  WITHOUT.  11/ 

Better  to  have  the  poet's  heart  than  brain, 
Feeling  than  song ;  but  better  far  than  both, 
To  be  a  song,  a  music  of  God's  making  ; 
Or  but  a  table,  on  which  God's  finger  of  flame. 
In  words  harmonious,  of  triumphant  verse. 
That  mingles  joy  and  sorrow,  sets  down  clear. 
That  out  of  darkness  He  hath  called  the  light. 
It  may  be  voice  to  such  is  after  given, 
To  tell  the  mighty  tale  to  other  worlds. 

O,  I  am  blest  in  sorrows  with  a  hope 
That  steeps  them  all  in  glory  ;  as  gray  clouds 
Are  bathed  in  light  of  roses ;  yea,  I  were 
Most  blest  of  men,  if  I  were  now  returning 
To  Lilia's  heart  as  presence.     O  my  God, 
I  can  but  look  to  thee.     And  then  the  child  ! 
Why  should  my  love  to  her  break  out  in  tears  ? 
Why  should  she  be  only  a  consolation. 
And  not  an  added  joy,  to  fill  my  soul 
With  gladness  overflowing  in  many  voices 
Of  song,  and  prayer  —  and  weeping  only  when 
Words  fainted  'neath  the  weight  of  utterance  ? 

Scene  IX.  —  Lilia  preparing  to  go  out.     Lily. 
Lily.  Don't  go  to-night  again. 


Tl8  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  III 

Lilia.  Why,  child,  your  father 

Will  soon  be  home  ;  and  then  you  will  not  miss  me. 

Lily.  O,  but  I  shall  though ;  and  he   looks   so  sad 
When  you're  not  here. 

Lilia  {aside).  He  cannot   look   much  sadder 

Than  when  I  am.     I  am  sure  'tis  a  relief 
To  find  his  child  alone  when  he  returns. 

Lily.  Will  you  go,  mother  ?     Then  I'll  go  and  cry 
Till  father  comes.     He'll  take  me  on  his  knee. 
And  tell  such  lovely  tales  :  you  never  do  — 
Nor  sing  me  songs  made  all  for  my  own  self. 
He  does  not  kiss  me  half  so  many  times 
As  you  do,  mother  ;  but  he  loves  me  more. 
Do  you  love  father,  too  ?     I  love  him  so  I 

Lilia  {ready).    There's  such  a  pretty  book  !     Sit  on 
the  stool, 
And  look  at  the  pictures  till  your  father  comes. 

\Goes. 

Lily  [putting  the  book  down,  and  going  to  the  window), 
I  wish  he  would  come  home.     I  wish  he  would. 

Enter  Julian. 
O,  there  he  is  !  IRwining  up  to  him. 

O,  now  I  am  so  happy  !      [Laughing. 
I  had  not  time  to  watch  before  vou  came. 


Scene  IX.  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  II9 

yulia?!  {faking  her  in  his  arms).   I   am  very  glad  to 
have  my  little  girl ; 
I  walked  quite  fast  to  come  to  her  again. 

Lily.  I  do,  do  love  you.     Shall  I  tell  you  something  ? 
Think  I  should  like  to  tell  you.     'Tis  a  dream 
That  I  went  into,  somewhere  in  last  night. 
I  was  alone  —  quite  ; — you  were  not  with  me, 
So  I  must  tell  you.     'Twas  a  garden,  like  -^ 

That  one  you  took  me  to,  long,  long  ago, 
When  the  sun  was  so  hot.     It  was  not  winter, 
But  some  of  the  poor  leaves  were  growing  tired 
With  hanging  there  so  long.     And  some  of  them 
Gave  it  up  quite,  and  so  dropped  down  and  lay 
Quiet  on  the  ground.     And  I  was  watching  them. 
I  saw  one  falling  —  down,  down  —  tumbling  down  — 
Just  at  the  earth  —  when  suddenly  it  spread 
Great  wings  and  flew.     It  was  a  butterfly, 
So  beautiful  with  wings,  black,  red,  and  white  — 

[Laughing  heartily 

I  thought  it  was  a  crackly,  withered  leaf. 
Away  it  flew !     I  don't  know  where  it  went. 
And  so  I  thought,  I  have  a  story  now 
To  tell  dear  father  when  he  comes  to  Lily. 


I20  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  Part  III. 

yulian.  Thank  you,  my  child  ;  a  very  pretty  dream. 
But  I  am  tired — will  you  go  find  another  — 
Another  dream  somewhere  in  sleep  for  me  ? 

Lily.  O  yes,  I  will.     Perhaps  I  cannot  find  one. 

\^He  lays  her  doivn  to  sleep  ;  then  sits  musing 

jfuHan.  What  shall  I  do  to  give  it  life  again  ? 
To  make  it  spread  its  wings  before  it  fall, 
And  lie  among  the  dead  things  of  the  earth  ? 

Lily.  I  cannot  go  to  sleep.     Please,  father,  sing 
The  song  about  the  little  thirsty  lily. 


[Julian  sings. 


SONG. 

Little  white  Lily 

Sat  by  a  stone, 
Drooping  and  waiting 

Till  the  sun  shone. 
Little  white  Lily 

Sunshine  has  fed  ; 
Little  white  Lily 

Is  lifting  her  head. 

Little  white  Lily 

Said,  "  It  is  good  : 
Little  white  Lily's 

Clothing  and  food  ! 
Little  white  Lily 

Drest  like  a  bride  ! 
Shining  with  whiteness, 

And  crowned  beside  ! 


Scene  IX.  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  121 

Little  white  Lily 

Droopeth  in  pain, 
Waiting  and  waiting 

For  the  wet  rain. 
Little  white  Lily 

Holdeth  her  cup  ; 
Rain  is  fast  falling, 

And  filling  it  up. 

Little  white  Lily 

Said,  "  Good  again. 
When  I  am  thirsty 

To  have  nice  rain  ! 
Now  I  am  stronger. 

Now  I  am  cool ; 
Heat  cannot  burn  me, 

My  veins  are  so  full !  " 

Little  white  Lily 

Smells  very  sweet : 
On  her  head  sunshine, 

Rain  at  her  feet. 
"  Thanks  to  the  sunshine  I 

Thanks  to  the  rain  ! 
Little  white  Lily 

Is  happy  again  !  " 

[He  is  silent  for  a  moment;  then  goes  and  looks  at  her, 
Julian.  She  is  asleep,  the  darUng  !     Easily 
Is  Sleep  enticed  to  brood  on  childhood's  heart. 

Gone  home  unto  thy  Father  for  the  night  ! 

\He  returns  to  his  seat. 


122  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  III. 

I  have  grown  common  to  her.     It  is  strange  — 
This  commonness  —  that,  as  a  bHght,  eats  up 
All  the  heart's  springing  corn  and  promised  fruit. 

{^Looking  round. 
This  room  is  very  common  :  everything 
Has  such  a  well  known  look  of  nothing  in  it; 
And  yet  when  first  I  called  it  hers  and  mine, 
There  was  a  mystery  inexhaustible 
About  each  trifle  on  the  chimney-shelf. 
But  now  the  gilt  is  nearly  all  worn  off. 
Even  she,  the  goddess  of  the  wonder  world, 
Seems  less  mysterious  and  worshipful  : 
No  wonder  I  am  common  in  her  eyes. 
Alas  !  what  must  I  think  ?     Is  this  the  true  ? 
Was  that  the  false  that  was  so  beautiful  ? 
Was  it  a  rosy  mist  that  wrapped  it  round  ? 
Or  was  love  to  the  eyes  as  opium, 
Making  all  things  more  beauteous  than  they  were } 
And  can  that  opium  do  more  than  God 
To  waken  beauty  in  a  human  brain  ? 
Is  this  the  real,  the  cold,  undraperied  truth  ; 
A  skeleton  admitted  as  a  guest 
At  life's  loud  feast,  wearing:  a  life-like  mask  ? 


Scene  IX.  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  123 

No,  no  ;  my  heart  would  die  if  I  believed  it. 

A  blighting  fog  uprises  with  the  days, 

False,  cold,  dull,  leaden,  gray.     It  clings  about 

The  present,  far  dragging  like  a  robe  ;  but  ever 

Forsakes  the  past,  and  lets  its  hues  shine  out : 

On  past  and  future  pours  the  light  of  heaven. 

The  Commonplace  is  of  the  present  mind. 

The  Lovely  is  the  True.     The  Beautiful 

Is  what  God  made.     Men  from  whose  narrow  bosoms 

The  great  child-heart  has  withered,  backward  look 

To  their  first-love,  and  laugh,  and  call  it  folly, 

A  mere  delusion  to  which  youth  is  subject, 

As  childhood  to  diseases.     They  know  better  ; 

And  proud  of  their  denying,  tell  the  youth, 

On  whom  the  wonder  of  his  being  shines, 

That  will  be  over  with  him  by  and  by  : 

"  I  was  so  when  a  boy  —  look  at  me  now ! " 

Youth,  be  not  one  of  them,  but  love  thy  love. 

So  with  all  worship  of  the  high  and  good, 

And  pure  and  beautiful.     These  men  are  wiser  ! 

Their  god,  Experience,  but  their  own  decay  ; 

Their  wisdom  but  the  gray  hairs  gathered  on  them. 

Yea,  some  will  mourn  and  sing  about  their  loss. 


124  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  III. 

And  for  the  sake  of  sweet  sounds  cherish  it, 

Nor  yet  believe  that  it  was  more  than  seeming. 

But  he  in  whom  the  child's  heart  hath  not  died, 

Hath  grown  a  man's  heart,  loveth  yet  the  Past ; 

Believes  in  all  its  beauty  ;  knows  the  hours 

Will  melt  the  mist ;  and  though  this  very  day 

Casts  but  a  dull  stone  on  Time's  heaped-up  cairn, 

A  morning  light  will  break  one  morn  and  draw 

The  hidden  glories  of  a  thousand  hues 

Out  from  its  crystal  depths  and  ruby  spots 

And  sapphire  veins,  unseen,  unknown,  before. 

Far  in  the  future  lies  his  refuge.     Time 

Is  God's,  and  all  its  miracles  are  his  ; 

And  in  the  Future  he  overtakes  the  Past, 

Which  was  a  prophecy  of  times  to  come  : 

There  lie  great  flashing  stars,  the  same  that  shone 

In  childhood's  laughing  heaven ;  there  lies  the  wonder 

In  which  the  sun  went  down  and  moon  arose  ; 

The  joy  with  which  the  meadows  opened  out 

Their  daisies  to  the  warming  sun  of  spring; 

Yea,  all  the  inward  glory,  ere  cold  fear 

Froze,  or  doubt  shook  the  mirror  of  his  soul. 

To  reach  it,  he  must  climb  the  present  slope 


Scene  X.  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  125 

Of  this  clay's  duty  —  here  he  would  not  rest. 
But  all  the  time  the  glory  is  at  hand, 
Urging  and  guiding  —  only  o'er  its  face    ■ 
Hangs  ever,  pledge  and  screen,  the  bridal  veil  : 
He  knows  the  beauty  radiant  underneath  ; 
He  knows  that  God  who  is  the  living  God, 
The  God  of  living  things,  not  of  the  dying. 
Would  never  give  his  child,  for  God-born  love, 
A  cloud-made  phantom,  fading  in  the  sun. 
Faith  vanishes  in  sight ;  the  cloudy  veil 
Will  melt  away,  destroyed  of  inward  light. 

If  thy  young  heart  yet  lived,  my  Lilia,  thou 
And  I  might,  as  two  children,  hand  in  hand, 
Go  home  unto  our  Father.     I  believe 
It  only  sleeps,  and  may  be  wakened  yet. 

Scene  X.  —  Julianas  room.     Christmas  Day;  earl^  morn.     Ju- 
lian. 

jfulian.     The    light   comes   feebly,    slowly,    to    the 
world 
On  this  one  day  that  blesses  all  the  year, 
Just  as  it  comes  on  any  other  day  : 
A  feeble  child  He  came,  yet  not  the  less 


126  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  Part  III. 

Brought  godlike  childhood  to  the  aged  earth, 

Where  nothing  now  is  common  any  more. 

All  things  had  hitherto  proclaimed  God  : 

The  wide-spread  air ;  the  luminous  mist  that  hid 

The  far  horizon  of  the  fading  sea  ; 

The  low  persistent  music  evermore 

Flung  down  upon  the  sands,  and  at  the  base 

Of  the  great  rocks  that  hold  it  as  a  cup  ; 

All  things  most  common  ;  the  furze,  now  golden,  now 

Opening  dark  pods  in  music  to  the  heat 

Of  the  high  summer  sun  at  afternoon  ; 

The  lone  black  tarn  upon  the  round  hill-top, 

O'er  which  the  gray  clouds  brood  like  rising  smoke. 

Sending  its  many  rills,  o'erarched  and  hid. 

Singing  like  children  down  the  rocky  sides  ;  — 

Where  shall  I  find  the  most  unnoticed  thing, 

For  that  sung  God  with  all  its  voice  of  song  ? 

But  men  heard  not,  they  knew  not  God  in  these  ; 

To  their  strange  speech  unlistening  ears  were  strange  j 

For  with  a  stammering  tongue  and  broken  words, 

With  mingled  falsehoods  and  denials  loud, 

Man  witnessed  God  unto  his  fellow-man  : 

How  then  himself  the  voice  of  Nature  hear  ? 


Scene  X.  WITHIN    AND    WITHOUT.  127 

Or  how  himself  be  heeded,  when,  the  leader, 

He  in  the  chorus  sang  in  discord  vile  ? 

When  prophet  lies,  how  shall  the  people  preach  ? 

But  when  He  came  in  poverty,  and  low, 

A  real  man  to  half-unreal  men, 

A  man  whose  human  thoughts  were  all  divine, 

The  head  and  ujoturned  face  of  human  kind  — 

Then  God  shone  forth  from  all  the  lowly  earth. 

And  men  began  to  read  their  Maker  there. 

Now  the  Divine  descends,  pervading  all. 

Earth  is  no  more  a  banishment  from  heaven  ; 

But  a  lone  field  among  the  distant  hills. 

Well  ploughed  and  sown,  whence    corn    is   gathered 

home. 
Now,  now  we  feel  the  holy  mystery 
That  permeates  all  being  :  all  is  God's  ; 
And  my  poor  life  is  terribly  sublime. 
Where'er  I  look,  I  am  alone  in  God, 
As  this  round  world  is  wrapt  in  folding  space  ; 
Behind,  before,  begin  and  end  in  Him: 
So  all  beginnings  and  all  ends  are  hid  ; 
And  He  is  hid  in  me,  and  I  in  Him. 
O  what  a  unitv,  to  mean  them  all  !  — 


128  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  III. 

The  peach-dyed  morn  ;  cold  stars  in  colder  blue 
Gazing  across  upon  the  sun-dyed  west ; 
While  the  cold  wind  is  running  o'er  the  graves. 
Green  buds,  red  flowers,  brown   leaves,  and  ghostly 

snow ; 
The  grassy  hills,  breeze-haunted  on  the  brow ; 
And  sandy  deserts  hung  with  stinging  stars. 
Half  vanished  hangs  the  moon,  with  daylight  sick, 
AVan-faced  and  lost  and  lonely :  daylight  fades  — 
Blooms  out  the  pale  eternal  flower  of  space, 
The  opal  night,  whose  odors  are  gray  dreams  — 
Core  of  its  petal-cup,  the  radiant  moon. 
All,  all  the  unnumbered  meanings  of  the  earth. 
Changing  with  every  cloud  that  passes  o'er  ; 
All,  all,  from  rocks  slow  crumbling  in  the  frost 
Of  Alpine  deserts,  isled  in  stormy  air, 
To  where  the  pool  in  warm  brown  shadow  sleeps, 
The  stream,  sun-ransomed,  dances  in  the  sun  ; 
All,  all,  from  polar  seas  of  jeweled  ice, 
To  where  she  dreams  out  gorgeous  flowers  —  all,  all 
The  unlike  children  of  her  single  womb  — 
O,  my  heart  labors  with  infinitude  ! 
All,  all  the  messages  that  these  have  borne 


Scene  X.  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  129 

To  e3^es  and  ears,  and  watching,  listening  souls  ; 
And  all  the  kindling  cheeks  and  swelling  hearts, 
That  since  the  first-born,  young,  attempting  day, 
Have  gazed  and  worshipped  !     What  a  unity, 
To  mean  each  one,  yet  fuse  the  each  in  all ! 
O  centre  of  all  forms  ?     O  concord's  home  ! 
O  world  alive  in  one  condensed  world ! 

0  face  of  Him,  in  whose  heart  lay  concealed 

The  fountain  thought  of  all  this  kingdom  of  heaven  I 
Lord,  thou  art  infinite,  and  I  am  thine  ! 

I  sought  my  God ;  I  pressed  importunate  ; 

1  spoke  to  Him,  I  cried,  and  in  my  heart 

It  seemed  He  answered  me.     I  said,  "  O,  take 

Me  nigh  to  thee,  thou  mighty  life  of  life ! 

I  faint,  I  die  ;  I  am  a  child  alone 

'Mid  the  wild  storm,  the  brooding  desert  night." 

"  Go  thou,  poor  child,  to  Him  who  once,  like  thee. 
Trod  the  highways  and  deserts  of  the  world." 

"  Thou  sendest  me  then,  wretched,  from  thy  sight ! 
Thou  wilt  not  have  me  —  I  am  not  worth  thy  care  !  " 

"  I  send  thee  not  away ;  child,  think  not  so  ; 
From  the  cloud  resting  on  the  mountain  peak, 
I  call  to  guide  thee  in  the  path  by  which 
9 


I30  WITHIN  AND    WITHOUT.  Part   III. 

Thou  mayst  come  soonest  home  unto  my  heart. 
I,  I  am  leading  thee.     Think  not  of  Him 
As  He  were  one  and  I  were  one ;  in  Him 
Thou  wilt  find  me,  for  He  and  I  are  one. 
Learn  thou  to  worship  at  his  lowly  shrine, 
And  see  that  God  dwelleth  in  lowliness." 

I  came  to  Him  ;  I  gazed  upon  his  face ; 
And  lo  !  from  out  his  eyes  God  looked  on  me  ! 
Yea,  let  them  laugh  !    I  will  sit  at  his  feet, 
As  a  child  sits  upon  the  ground,  and  looks 
Up  in  his  mother's  face.     One  smile  from  Him, 
One  look  from  those  sad  eyes,  is  more  to  me 
Than  to  be  lord  myself  of  hearts  and  thoughts. 
O  perfect  made  through  the  reacting  pain 
In  which  thy  making  force  recoiled  on  thee ! 
Whom  no  less  glory  could  make  visible 
Than  the  utter  giving  of  thyself  away. 
Without  a  thought  of  grandeur  in  the  deed, 
More  than  a  child  embracing  from  full  heart ! 
Lord  of  thyself  and  me  through  the  sore  grief. 
Which  thou  didst  bear  to  bring  us  back  to  God, 
Or  rather,  bear  in  being  unto  us 
Thy  own  pure  shining  self  of  love  and  truth  ! 


Scene  XI.  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  I3I 

When  I  have  learned  to  think  thy  radiant  thoughts, 

To  love  the  truth  beyond  the  power  to  know  it, 

To  bear  my  light  as  thou  thy  heavy  cross, 

Nor  ever  feel  a  martyr  for  thy  sake, 

But  an  unprofitable  servant  still,  — 

My  highest  sacrifice  my  simplest  duty 

Imperative  and  unavoidable, 

Less  than  which  All^  were  nothingness  and  waste  ; 

When  I  have  lost  myself  in  other  men. 

And  found  myself  in  thee  —  the  Father  then 

Will  come  with  thee,  and  will  abide  with  me. 


Scene  XI.  —  Lilia  teachmg  Lady  Gertrude.  Enter  Lord 
Seaford.  Lilia  rises.  He  places  her  a  chair,  and  seats  him- 
self at  the  instrument ;  plays  a  low,  half -melancholy,  half-dc' 
fiant  prelude,  and  sings. 

SONG. 

"  Look  on  the  magic  mirror  ; 

A  glory  thou  wilt  spy  : 
Be  with  thine  heart  a  sharer, 

But  go  not  thou  too  nigh  ; 
Else  thou  wilt  rue  thine  error, 

With  a  tear-filled,  sleepless  eye." 


The  youth  looked  on  the  mirror, 
And  he  wait  not  too  nigh  ; 


132  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  III. 

And  yet  he  rued  his  error, 

With  a  tear-filled,  sleepless  eye ; 
For  he  could  not  be  a  sharer 

Of  what  he  there  did  spy. 

He  went  to  the  magician. 

Upon  the  morrow  morn. 
"  Mighty,"  was  his  petition, 

"  Look  not  on  me  in  scorn  ; 
But  one  last  gaze  elysian. 

Lest  I  should  die  forlorn  !  " 

He  saw  her  in  her  glory. 

Floating  upon  the  main. 
Ah  me  !  the  same  sad  story  ! 

The  darkness  and  the  rain  ! 
If  I  live  till  I  am  hoary, 

I  shall  never  laugh  again. 

She  held  the  youth  enchanted. 

Till  his  trembling  lips  were  pale. 
And  his  full  heart  heaved  and  panted 

To  utter  all  its  tale  : 
Forward  he  rushed,  undaunted  — 

And  the  shattered  mirror  fell. 

lUe  rises  and  leaves  the  roont^     LiLlA  weeping 


END    OF    PART    III. 


WITHIN   AND  WITHOUT. 
PART    IV. 

And  should  the  twilight  darken  into  night, 

And  sorrow  grow  to  anguish,  be  thou  strong  ; 

Thou  art  in  God,  and  nothing  can  go  wrong 
Which  a  fresh  life-pulse  cannot  set  aright. 
That  thou  dost  know  the  darkness,  proves  the  light. 

Weep  if  thou  wilt,  but  weep  not  all  too  long ; 

Or  weep  and  work,  for  work  will  lead  to  song. 
But  search  thy  heart,  if,  hid  from  all  thy  sight, 
There  lie  no  cause  for  beauty's  slow  decay ; 

If  for  completeness  and  diviner  youth. 

And  not  for  very  love,  thou  seek'st  the  truth  ; 
If  thou  hast  learned  to  give  thyself  away 
For  love's  own  self,  not  for  thyself,  I  say  : 

Were  God's  love  less,  the  world  were  lost,  in  sooth. 


PART   IV. 

Scene  I.  —  Summer.     Julian'' s  room.     Julian  is  reading  out  of 
a  book  of  poems. 

LOVE  me,  beloved  :  the  thick  clouds  lower  ; 
A  sleepiness  filleth  the  earth  and  air ; 
The  rain  has  been  falling  for  many  an  hour  ; 

A  weary  look  the  summer  doth  wear  : 
Beautiful  things  that  cannot  be  so  ; 
Loveliness  clad  in  the  garments  of  woe. 

I.ove  me,  beloved  :  I  hear  the  birds  ; 

The  clouds  are  lighter ;  I  see  the  blue  ; 
The  wind  in  the  leaves  is  like  gentle  words 

Quietly  passing  'twixt  me  and  you  ; 
The  evening  air  will  bathe  the  buds 
With  the  soothing  coolness  of  summer  floods. 

Love  me,  beloved  :  for,  many  a  day, 
Will  the  mist  of  the  morning  pass  away  ; 
Many  a  day  will  the  brightness  of  noon 
Lead  to  a  night  that  hath  lost  her  moon  ; 
And  in  joy  or  in  sadness,  in  autumn  or  spring. 
Thy  love  to  my  soul  is  a  needful  thing. 

Love  me,  beloved :  for  thou  mayest  lie 
Dead  in  my  sight,  'neath  the  same  blue  sky  ; 


136  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

Love  me,  O  love  me,  and  let  me  know 
The  love  that  within  thee  moves  to  and  fro  ; 
That  many  a  form  of  thy  love  may  be 
Gathered  around  thy  memory. 

Love  me,  beloved  :  for  I  may  lie 
Dead  in  thy  sight,  'neath  the  same  blue  sky  ; 
The  more  thou  hast  loved  me,  the  less  thy  pain, 
The  stronger  thy  hope  till  we  meet  again ; 
And  forth  on  the  pathway  we  do  not  know, 
With  a  load  of  love,  my  soul  would  go. 

Love  me,  beloved  :  for  one  must  lie 
Motionless,  lifeless,  beneath  the  sky  ; 
The  pale  stiff  lips  return  no  kiss 
To  the  lips  that  never  brought  love  amiss  ; 
And  the  dark  brown  earth  be  heaped  above 
The  head  that  lay  on  the  bosom  of  love. 

Love  me,  beloved ;  for  both  must  lie 

Under  the  earth  and  beneath  the  sky  ; 

The  world  be  the  same  when  we  are  gone  ; 

The  leaves  and  the  waters  all  sound  on ; 

The  spring  come  forth,  and  the  wild  flowers  live, 

Gifts  for  the  poor  man's  love  to  give  ; 

The  sea,  the  lordly,  the  gentle  sea, 

Tell  the  same  tales  to  others  than  thee  ; 

And  joys,  that  flush  with  an  inward  morn, 

Irradiate  hearts  that  are  yet  unborn  ; 

A  youthful  race  call  our  earth  their  own. 

And  gaze  on  its  wonders  from  thought's  high  throne, 

Embraced  by  fair  Nature,  the  youth  will  embrace 

The  maid  beside  him,  his  queen  of  the  race  : 


Scene  I.  WITHIN  AND  WITHOUT.  137 

When  thou  and  I  shall  have  passed  away 
Like  the  foam-flake  thou  lookedst  on  yesterday. 

Love  me,  beloved  :  for  both  must  tread 

On  the  threshold  of  Hades,  the  house  of  the  dead  ; 

Where  now  but  in  thinkings  strange  we  roam, 

We  shall  live  and  think,  and  shall  be  at  home  ; 

The  sights  and  the  sounds  of  the  spirit  land 

No  stranger  to  us  than  the  white  sea-sand, 

Than  the  voice  of  the  waves,  and  the  eye  of  the  moon, 

Than  the  crowded  street  in  the  sunlit  noon. 

I  pray  thee  to  love  me,  beloved  of  my  heart ; 

If  we  love  not  truly,  at  death  we  part ; 

And  how  would  it  be  with  our  souls  to  find 

That  love,  like  a  body,  was  left  behind  ! 

Love  me,  beloved  :  Hades  and  Death 
Shall  vanish  away  like  a  frosty  breath  ; 
These  hands,  that  now  are  at  home  in  thine, 
Shall  clasp  thee  again,  if  thou  still  art  mine  ; 
And  thou  shalt  be  mine,  my  spirit's  bride, 
In  the  ceaseless  flow  of  eternity's  tide. 
If  the  truest  love  that  thy  heart  can  know 
Meet  the  truest  love  that  from  mine  can  flow. 
Pray  God,  beloved,  for  thee  and  me, 
That  our  souls  may  be  wedded  eternally. 

\ffe  closes  the  book,  and  is  silent  for  some  moments. 

Ah  me,  O  Poet !  did  thy  love  last  out 

The  common  life  together  every  hour  ? 

The  slumber  side  by  side  with  wondrousness 

Each  night  after  a  day  of  fog  and  rain  ? 


138  WITHIN    AND    WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

Did  thy  love  glory  o'er  the  empty  purse, 
And  the  poor  meal  sometimes  the  poet's  lot  ? 
Is  she  dead,  Poet  ?    Is  thy  love  awake  ? 
Alas  !  and  is  it  come  to  this  with  me  ? 
I  might  have  written  that ;  where  am  I  now  ? 
Yet  let  me  think :     I  love  less  passionately, 
But  not  less  truly  ;  I  would  die  for  her  — 
A  little  thing,  but  all  a  man  can  do. 
O  my  beloved,  where  the  answering  love  ? 
Love  me,  beloved  ;  whither  art  thou  gone  ? 

Scene  II. — Lilians  room.     LiLiA. 

Lilia.  He  grows  more  moody  still,  more  self-with- 
drawn. 
Were  it  not  better  that  I  went  away, 
And  left  him  with  the  child  ;  for  she  alone 
Can  bring  the  sunshine  on  his  cloudy  face  ? 
Alas  !  he  used  to  say  to  me,  my  child. 
Some  convent  would  receive  me  in  my  land. 
Where  I  might  weep  unseen,  unquestioned  ; 
And  pray  that  God,  in  whom  he  seems  to  dwell, 
To  take  me  likewise  in,  beside  him  there. 

Had  I  not  better  make  one  trial  first 


Scene  III.  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  139 

To  win  again  his  love  to  compass  me  ? 

Might  I  not  kneel,  lie  down  before  his  feet, 

And  beg  and  pray  for  love  as  for  my  life  ? 

Clasping  his  knees,  look  up  to  that  stern  heaven, 

That  broods  above  his  eyes,  and  pray  for  smiles  ? 

What  if  endurance  were  my  only  meed  ? 

He  would  not  turn  away,  but  speak  forced  words, 

Soothing  with  kindness  me  who  thirst  for  love, 

And  giving  service  where  I  wanted  smiles  ; 

Till  by  degrees  all  had  gone  back  again 

To  where  it  was,  a  slow  dull  misery. 

No.     'Tis  the  best  thing  I  can  do  for  him  — 

And  that  I  will  do  —  free  him  from  my  sight. 

In  love  I  gave  myself  away  to  him  ; 

And  now  in  love  I  take  myself  again. 

He  will  not  miss  me  ;  I  am  nothing  now. 

Scene  III.  —  Lord  Seaford's  garden.    LiLiA;  Lord  Seaford. 
Lord  S.  How  the  white  roses  cluster  on  the  trellis  ! 
They  look  in  the  dim  light  as  if  they  floated 
Within  the  fluid  dusk  that  bathes  them  round. 
One  could  believe  that  those  far  distant  sounds 
Of  scarce-heard  music,  rose  with  the  faint  scent, 


I40  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

Breathed  odorous  from  the  heart  of  the  pale  flowers, 

As  the  low  rushing  from  a  river-bed, 

Or  the  continuous  bubbling  of  a  spring 

In  deep  woods,  turning  over  its  own  joy 

In  its  own  heart  luxuriously,  alone. 

'Twas  on  such  nights,  after  such  sunny  days, 

The  poets  of  old  Greece  saw  beauteous  shapes 

Sighed  forth  from  out  the  rooted,  earth-fast  trees, 

With  likeness  undefinable  retained 

In  higher  human  form  to  their  tree-homes, 

AVhich  fainting  let  them  forth  into  the  air. 

And  lived  a  life  in  death  till  they  returned. 

The  large-limbed,  sweepy-curved,  smooth-rinded  beech 

Gave  forth  the  perfect  woman  to  the  night ; 

From  the  pale  birch,  breeze-bent  and  waving,  stole 

The  graceful,  slight-curved  maiden,  scarcely  grown. 

The  hidden  well  gave  forth  its  hidden  charm. 

The  Naiad  with  the  hair  that  flowed  like  streams. 

And  arms  that  gleamed  like  moonshine  on  wet  sands. 

The  broad-browed  oak,  the  stately  elm,  gave  forth 

Their  inner  life  in  shapes  of  ecstasy. 

All  varied,  loveliest  forms  of  womanhood 

Dawned  out  in  twilight,  and  athwart  the  grass 


Scene  III.         WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  141 

Half  danced  with  cool  and  naked  feet,  half  floated 
Borne  on  winds  dense  enough  for  them  to  swim. 
O  what  a  life  they  lived  !  in  poet's  brain  — 
Not  on  this  earth,  alas  !     But  you  are  sad  ; 
You  do  not  speak,  dear  lady. 

Lilia.  Pardon  me. 

If  such  words  make  me  sad,  I  am  to  blame. 

Lord  S.  Sad  !     True,  I  spoke  of  lovely,  beauteous 
things  ; 
Beauty  and  sadness  always  go  together. 
Nature  thought  Beauty  too  rich  to  go  forth 
Upon  the  earth  without  a  meet  alloy. 
If  Beauty  had  been  born  the  twin  of  Gladness, 
Poets  had  never  needed  this  dream-life  ; 
Each  blessed  man  had  but  to  look  beside  him, 
And  be  more  blest.     How  easily  could  God 
Have  made  our  life  one  consciousness  of  joy  ! 
It  is  denied  us.     Beauty  flung  around 
Most  lavishly,  to  teach  our  longing  hearts 
To  worship  her  ;  then  when  the  soul  is  full 
Of  lovely  shapes,  and  all  sweet  sounds  that  breathe, 
And  colors  that  bring  tears  into  the  eyes  — 
Steeped  until  saturated  with  her  essence  ; 


142  WITPIIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

And,  faint  with  longing,  gasps  for  some  one  thing 

More  beautiful  than  all,  containing  all, 

Essential  Beauty's  self,  that  it  may  say: 

"  Thou   art  my  Queen  —  I  dare  not   think  to   crown 

thee, 
For  thou  art  crowned  already,  every  part. 
With  thy  perfection  ;  but  I  kneel  to  thee. 
The  utterance  of  the  beauty  of  the  earth, 
As  of  the  trees  the  Hamadryades  ; 
I  worship  thee,  intense  of  loveliness ! 
Not  sea-born  only  ;  sprung  from  Earth,  Air,  Ocean, 
Star-fire  ;  all  elements  and  forms  commingling 
To  give  thee  birth,  to  utter  each  its  thought 
Of  beauty  held  in  many  forms  diverse, 
In  one  form,  holding  all,  a  living  Love, 
Their  far-surpassing  child,  their  chosen  queen 
By  virtue  of  thy  dignities  combined  !  " 
And  when  in  some  great  hour  of  wild  surprise 
She  floats  into  his  sight ;  and,  rapt,  entranced. 
At  last  he  gazes,  as  I  gaze  on  thee. 
And,  breathless,  his  full  heart  stands  still  for  joy, 
And  his  soul  thinks  not,  having  lost  itself 
In  her,  pervaded  with  her  being ;  strayed 


Scene  III.         WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  143 

Out  from  his  eyes,  and  gathered  round  her  form, 

Clothing  her  with  the  only  beauty  yet 

That  could  be  added,  ownness  unto  him  : 

Then  falls  the  sternest  No  with  thunder  tone. 

Think,  lady,  —  the  poor  unresisting  soul 

Clear-burnished  to  a  crystalline  abyss 

To  hold  in  central  deep  the  ideal  form  ; 

Led  then  to  Beauty,  and  one  glance  allowed 

From  heart  of  hungry,  vacant,  waiting  shrine. 

To  set  it  on  the  Pisgah  of  desire  — 

Lo,  the  black  storm  !  the  slanting,  sweeping  rain  ! 

Gray  distances  of  travel  to  no  end ! 

And  the  dim  rush  of  countless  years  behind  ! 

\He  sinks  at  her  feet. 

Yet  for  this  moment,  let  me  worship  thee  ! 

Lilia  {agitated).  Rise,  rise,  my  lord  ;  this  cannot  be 
indeed. 
I  pray  you,  cease  ;  I  will  not  listen  to  you. 
Indeed  it  must  not,  cannot,  must  not  be  ! 

[Moving  as  to  go. 

Lord  S.  {rising).  Forgive  me,  madam.     Let  me  cast 
myself 
On  your  good  thoughts.     I  had  been  thinking  thus, 


144  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

All  the  bright  morning,  as  I  walked  alone  ; 

And    when   you    came,  my  thoughts   flowed    forth  in 

words. 
It  is  a  weakness  with  me  from  my  boyhood, 
That  if  I  act  a  part  in  any  play, 
Or  follow,  merely  intellectually, 
A  passion  or  a  motive  —  ere  I  know, 
My  being  is  absorbed,  my  brain  on  fire  ; 
I  am  possessed  with  something  not  my  own, 
And  live  and  move  and  speak  in  foreign  forms. 
Pity  my  weakness,  madam  ;  and  forgive 
My  rudeness  with  your  gentleness  and  truth. 
That  you  are  beautiful  is  simple  fact ; 
And  when  I  once  began  to  speak  my  thoughts. 
The  wheels  of  speech  ran  on,  till  they  took  fire. 
And  in  your  face  flung  foolish  sparks  and  dust. 
I  am  ashamed  ;  and  but  for  dread  of  shame, 
I  should  be  kneeling  now  to  beg  forgiveness. 

Lilia.  Think  nothing  more  of  it,  my  lord,  I  pray. 
What  is  this  purple  flower  with  the  black  spot 
In  its  deep  heart  ?     I  never  saw  it  before. 


Scene  iV.         WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  145 

Scene  IV.  —  Juliaii's    room.      The  dusk   of  eveni/ig.      Julian 
standing  with  his  arms  folded,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor. 

yulian.   I  see  her  as  I  saw  her  then.     She  sat 
On  a  low  chair,  the  child  upon  her  knees, 
Not  six  months  old.     Radiant  with  motherhood, 
Her  full  face  beamed  upon  the  face  below. 
Bent  over,  as  with  love  to  ripen  love ; 
Till  its  intensity,  like  summer  heat. 
Gathered  a  mist  across  her  heaven  of  eyes, 
Which  grew  until  it  dropt  in  large  slow  tears, 
Rich  human  rain  on  furrows  of  the  heart ! 

\^He  walks  towards  the  window,  seats  himself  at  a  little  table^ 
and  writes. 


THE  FATHER'S  HYMN  FOR  THE  MOTHER  TO  SING. 

My  child  is  lying  on  my  knees  ; 

The  signs  of  heaven  she  reads  ; 
My  face  is  all  the  heaven  she  sees, 

Is  all  the  heaven  she  needs. 

And  she  is  well,  yea,  bathed  in  bliss, 

If  heaven  is  in  my  face  — 
Behind  it  all  is  tenderness, 

And  truthfulness  and  grace. 
10 


146  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

I  mean  her  well  so  earnestly, 

Unchanged  in  changing  mood  ; 
My  life  would  go  without  a  sigh 

To  bring  her  something  good. 

I  also  am  a  child,  and  I 

Am  ignorant  and  weak  ; 
I  gaze  upon  the  starry  sky, 

And  then  I  must  not  speak  ; 

For  all  behind  the  starry  sky. 

Behind  the  world  so  broad, 
Behind  men's  hearts  and  souls  doth  lie 

The  Infinite  of  God. 

If  true  to  her,  though  troubled  sore, 

I  cannot  choose  but  be  ; 
Thou,  who  art  peace  for  evermore, 

Art  very  true  to  me. 

If  I  am  low  and  sinful,  bring 

More  love  where  need  is  rife  ; 
Thou  knowest  what  an  awful  thing 

It  is  to  be  a  life. 

Hast  thou  not  wisdom  to  enwrap 

My  waywardness  about, 
In  doubting  safety  on  the  lap 

Of  Love  that  knows  no  doubt  t 

Lo  !  Lord,  I  sit  in  thy  wide  space. 

My  child  upon  my  knee  ; 
She  looketh  up  unto  my  face, 

And  I  look  up  to  thee. 


Scene  V.  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  147 

Scene  V.  —  Lord  SeaforcTs  house ;  Lady  Gertrude's  room. 
Lady  Gertrude  lying  on  a  couch ;  Lilia  seated  beside  her^ 
-with  the  girl's  hand  in  both  hers. 

Lady   Gertrude.  How  kind  of  you  to  come  !     And 
you  will  stay 
And  be  my  beautiful  nurse  till  I  grow  well  ? 
I  am  better  since  you  came.     You  look  so  sweet, 
It  brings  all  summer  back  into  my  heart. 

Lilia.  I  am  very  glad  to  come.     Indeed,  I  felt 
No  one  could  nurse  you  quite  so  well  as  I. 

Lady   Gertrude.    How  kind  of   you !     Do  call    me 
sweet  names  now  ; 
And  put  your  white  cool  hands  upon  my  head ; 
And  let  me  lie  and  look  in  your  great  eyes : 
'Twill  do  me  good  ;  your  very  eyes  are  healing. 

Lilia.    I    must  not    let    you    talk    too    much,    dear 
child. 

Lady  Gertrude.  Well,  as  I  cannot  have  my  music- 
lesson, 
And  must  not  speak  much,  will  you  sing  to  me  ? 
Sing  that  strange  ballad  you  sang  once  before  ; 
'Twill  keep  me  quiet. 

Lilia.  What  was  it,  child  ? 


148  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

Lady  Ge7't7'iide.  It  was 

Something  about  a  race  —  Death  and  a  lady  — 

Lilia.  O,  I  remember.     I  would  rather  sing 
Some  other  though. 

Lady  Gertrude.        No,  no,  I  want  that  one. 
Its  ghost  walks  up  and  down  inside  my  head, 
But  won't  stand  long  enough  to  show  itself. 
You  must  talk  Latin  to  it  —  sing  it  away, 
Or  when  I'm  ill,  'twill  haunt  me. 

Lilia.  Well,  I'll  sing  it. 

SONG. 

Death  and  a  lady  rode  in  the  wind, 

In  a  starry  midnight  pale  ; 
Death  on  a  bony  horse  behind, 

With  no  footfall  upon  the  gale. 

The  lady  sat  a  wild-eyed  steed  ; 

Eastward  he  tore  to  the  morn 
But  ever  the  sense  of  a  noiseless  speed. 

And  the  sound  of  reaping  corn  ! 

All  the  night  through,  the  headlong  race 

Sped  to  the  morning  gray  ; 
The  dewdrops  lay  on  her  cold  wliite  face^ 

From  Death  or  the  morning  ?  say. 

Her  steed's  wide  knees  began  to  shake, 
As  he  flung  the  road  behind  ; 


Scene  V.  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  149 

The  lady  sat  still,  but  her  heart  did  quake, 
And  a  cold  breath  came  down  the  wind. 


When,  lo  !  a  fleet  bay  horse  beside, 

With  a  silver  mane  and  tail ; 
A  knight,  bareheaded,  the  horse  did  ride, 

With  never  a  coat  of  mail. 

He  never  lifted  his  hand  to  Death, 

And  he  never  couched  a  spear  ; 
But  the  lady  felt  another  breath, 

And  a  voice  was  in  her  ear. 

He  looked  her  weary  eyes  through  and  through. 

With  lijs  eyes  so  strong  in  faith  : 
Her  bridle-hand  the  lady  drew. 

And  she  turned  and  laughed  at  Death. 

And  away  through  the  mist  of  the  morning  gray. 

The  spectre  and  horse  rode  wide  ; 
The  dawn  came  up  the  old  bright  way. 

And  the  lady  never  died. 

Lord  Seaford  {who  has  entered  during  the  song).    De- 
lightful !     Why,  my  little  pining  Gertrude, 
With  such  charm-music  you  will  soon  be  well. 
Madam,  I  know  not  how  to  speak  the  thanks 
I  owe  you  for  your  kindness  to  my  daughter  : 
She  looks  as  different  from  yesterday 
As  sunrise  from  a  fog. 


150  WITHIN   AND  WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

Lilia.  I  am  but  too  happy 

To  be  of  use  to  one  I  love  so  much. 


Scene  VI.  —  A  rainy  day.    Lord  Seaford  walking  up  and  down 
his  room,  murmnring  to  himself. 

O,  my  love  is  like  a  wind  of  death, 

That  turns  me  to  a  stone  ! 
O,  my  love  is  like  a  desert  breath, 

That  burns  me  to  the  bone  ! 

O,  my  love  is  a  flower  with  a  purple  glow, 

And  a  purple  scent  all  day  ! 
But  a  black  spot  lies  at  the  heart  below. 

And  smells  all  night  of  clay. 

O,  my  love  is  like  the  poison  sweet 

That  lurks  in  the  hooded  cell ! 
One  flash  in  the  eyes,  one  bounding  beat. 

And  then  the  passing  bell  ! 

O,  my  love  she's  like  a  white,  white  i-ose  ! 

And  I  am  the  canker-worm  : 
Never  the  bud  to  a  blossom  blows  ; 

It  falls  in  the  rainy  storm. 


Scene  VII.  — Julian  reading  in  his  room. 

And  yet  I  am  not  alone,  because  the  Father  is  with  me." 

[He  closes  the  book  and  kneels. 


Scene  VIII.       WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT. 


ISI 


Scene  VIII.  —  Lord  Seaford's  room.     Ltlia  and  Lord   Sea- 
ford.     Her  hand  lies  in  his. 

Lilia.  It  may  be  true.     I  am  bewildered,  though. 
I  know  not  what  to  answer. 

Lord  S.  Let  me  answer  : 

You  would  it  were  so  —  you  would  love  me  then  ? 

\A  sudden  crash  of  music  from  a  brass  band  in  the  street, 
melting  away  in  a  low  cadence. 

Lilia  {starting  up).  Let  me  go,  my  lord  ! 

Lord  S.  {retaining  her  hatid).   Why,  sweetest !    What 

is  this  t 
Lilia  {vehemently^  and  disengaging  her  hand).    Let 

me  go  !     O  my  husband  !   my  pale  child  1 

\She  hurries  to  the  door,  but  falls. 

Lord  S.  {raising  her).  I  thought  you  trusted  me,  yes, 

loved  me,  Lilia ! 

Lilia.  Peace  !  that  name  is  his  !    Speak  it  again  —  I 

rave. 

ILe  thought  I  loved  him  —  and  I  did  —  I  do. 

Open  the  door,  my  lord  ! 

\He   hesitates.     She  draws  herself  up  erect,   with  flashing 
eyes. 


152  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

Once  more,  my  lord  — 

Open  the  door,  I  say. 

\_He  still  hesitates.     She  walks  swiftly  to  the  window,  flitigs 

it  wide,  and  is  throzuing  herself  out. 

Loi'd  S.  Stop,  madam  !    I  will. 

\^He  opens  the  door.  She  leaves  the  window,  aytd  walks  slowly 
out.  He  hears  the  house-door  open  and  shut,  flings  him- 
self on  the  couch,  and  hides  his  face. 

Enter  Lady  Gertrude. 

Lady  Gertrude.  Dear  father,  are  you  ill  ?    I  knocked 
three  times  ; 
You  did  not  speak. 

Loi'd  S.  I  did  not  hear  you,  child. 

My  head  aches  rather ;  else  I  am  quite  well. 

Lady  Gertrude.  Where  is  the  Countess  ? 

Lord  S.  She  is  gone.     She  had 

An  urgent  message  to  go  home  at  once. 
But,  Gertrude,  now  you  seem  so  well,  why  not 
Set  out  to-morrow  ?     You  can  travel  now  ; 
And  for  your  sake  the  sooner  that  we  breathe 
Italian  air  the  better. 

LMdy  Gertrude.  This  is  sudden  ! 

I  scarcely  can  be  ready  by  to-morrow. 

U)rd  S.  It  will  oblige  me,  child.     Do  what  you  can. 


ScF.NE  IX.  WfTHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  1 53 

Just  go  and  order  everything  you  want. 
I  will  go  with  you.     Ring  the  bell,  my  love; 
I  have  a  reason  for  my  haste.     We'll  have 
The  horses  to  at  once.     Come,  Gertrude,  dear. 

Scene  IX.  —  Evening.     Hampstead  Heath,     Ltlia  seated. 

Lilia.  The  first  pale   star  of  night !    the  trembling 
star ! 
And  all  heaven  waiting  till  the  sun  has  drawn 
His  long  train  after  !  then  a  new  creation 
Will  follow  their  queen-leader  from  the  depths. 
O  leader  of  new  worlds  !     O  star  of  love  ! 
Thou  hast  gone  down  in  me,  gone  down  forever ; 
And  left  my  soul  in  such  a  starless  night. 
It  has  not  love  enough  to  weep  thy  loss. 
O  fool  !  to  know  thee  once,  and,  after  years, 
To  take  a  gleaming  marsh-light  for  thy  lamp 
How  could  I  for  one  moment  hear  him  speak  ! 
O  Julian  !  for  my  last  love-gift  I  thought 
To  bring  that  love  itself,  bound  and  resigned, 
And  offering  it  a  sacrifice  to  thee, 
Lead  it  away  into  the  wilderness  ; 
But  one  slow  spot  hath  tainted  this  my  lamb ; 


154  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

UnofFered  it  must  go,  footsore  and  weary, 

Not  flattering  itself  to  die  for  thee. 

And  yet,  thank  God,  it  was  one  moment  only, 

That,  lapt  in  darkness  and  tlie  loss  of  thee, 

Sun  of  my  soul,  and  half  my  senses  dead 

Through  very  weariness  and  lack  of  love, 

My  heart  throbbed  once  responsive  to  a  ray 

That  glimmered  through  its  gloom  from  other  eyes, 

And  seemed  to  promise  rest  and  hope  again. 

My  presence  shall  not  grieve  thee  any  more, 

My  Julian,  my  husband.     I  will  find 

A  quiet  place  where  I  will  seek  thy  God. 

And  —  in  my  heart  it  wakens  like  a  voice 

From  Him  —  the  Saviour  —  there  are  other  worlds 

Where  all  gone  wrong  in  this  may  be  set  right ; 

Where  I,  made  pure,  may  find  thee,  purer  still. 

And  thou  wilt  love  the  love  that  kneels  to  thee. 

I'll  write  and  tell  him  I  have  gone,  and  why. 

But  what  to  say  about  my  late  offense. 

That  he  may  understand  just  what  it  was  ? 

For  I  must  tell  him,  if  I  write  at  all. 

I  fear  he  would  discover  where  I  was  ; 

Pitiful  duty  would  not  let  him  rest 


Scene  X.  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  1 55 

Until  he  found  me  ;  and  I  fain  would  free 
From  all  the  weight  of  mine,  that  heart  of  his. 

[Soiit/d  of  a  coach-horn. 
It  calls  me  to  rise  up  and  go  to  him, 
Leading  me  further  from  him  and  away. 
The  earth  is  round  ;  God's  thoughts  return  again ; 
And  I  will  go  in  hope.     Help  me,  my  God  ! 

Scene  X.  —  'Julian'' s  rooin.  Julian  reading.  A  letter  is  brought 
in.  He  reads  it,  turns  deadly  pale,  and  leans  his  arms  and 
head  on  the  table,  almost  fainting.  This  lasts  some  time ;  then 
startvig  up,  he  paces  through  the  room,  his  shoulders  slightly 
shrugged,  his  arms  rigid  by  his  sides,  and  his  hands  clinched 
hard,  as  if  a  net  of  pain  were  drawn  tight  around  his  frame. 
At  length  he  breathes  deep,  dratvs  himself  up,  and  walks  erect, 
his  chest  swelling,  but  his  teeth  set. 

yulian.  Me !      My  wife !      Insect,   did'st  thou   say 
my  wife  ? 

\Hurriedly  turning  the  letter  on  the  table  to  see  the  address. 

Wh}^,  if  she  love  him  more  than  me,  why  then 

Let  her  go  with  him  !    Gone  to  Italy  ! 

Pursue,  says  he  ?     Revenge  ?    Let  the  corpse  crush 

The  slimy  maggot  with  its  pulpy  fingers ! 

What  if  I  stabbed  — 

f  Taking  his  dagger,  and  feeling  its  point. 

Whom  ?     Her  —  what  then  ?    Or  him  — 


156  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

What  yet  ?  Would  that  give  back  the  life  to  me  ? 
There  is  one  more  —  myself!  O,  peace  !  to  feel 
The    earthworms    crawling    through    my   mouldering 

brain ! 
But  to  be  driven  along  the  windy  wastes  — 
To  hear  the  tempests,  raving  as  they  turn, 
Howl  Lilia,  Lilia  —  to  be  tossed  about 
Beneath  the  stars  that  range  themselves  forever 
Into  the  burning  letters  of  her  name  — 
'Twere  better  creep  the  earth  down  here  than  that ; 
For  pain's  excess  here  sometimes  deadens  pain. 

\_He  throws  the  dagger  on  the  floor. 

Have  I  deserved  this  ?     Have  I  earned  lit     I  ? 
A  pride  of  innocence  darts  through  my  veins. 
I  stand  erect.     Shame  cannot  touch  me.     Ha  ! 
I  laugh  at  insult.     II     I  am  myself  — 
Why  starest  thou  at  me  ?     Well,  stare  thy  fill ; 
When  devils  mock,  the  angels  lend  their  wings  :  — 
But  what  their  wings  ?     I  have  nowhere  to  fly. 
Lilia  !  my  worship  of  thy  purity  ! 
Hast  thou  forgotten  —  ah  !  thou  didst  not  know 
How,  watching  by  thee  in  thy  fever-pain, 
When  thy  white  neck  and  bosom  were  laid  bare, 


Scene  X.  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  1 57 

I  turned  my  eyes  away,  and  turning  drew 

With  trembling  hand  white  darkness  over  thee, 

Because  I  knew  not  thou  didst  love  me  then. 

Love  me  !     O  God  in  heaven  !     Is  love  a  thing 

That  can  die  thus  ?  Love  me  !  Would,  for  thy  penance. 

Thou  saw'st  but  once  the  heart  which  thou  hast  torn  — 

Shaped  all  about  thy  image  set  within  ! 

But  that  were  fearful !     What  rage  would  not,  love 

Must  then  do  for  thee  —  in  mercy  I  would  kill  thee, 

To  save  thee  from  the  hell-fire  of  remorse. 

If  blood  would  make  thee  clean,  then   blood  should 

flow ; 
Eager,  unwilling,  this  hand  should  make  thee  bleed, 
Till,  drop  by  drop,  the  taint  should  drop  away. 
Clean  !  said  I  ?  fit  to  lie  by  me  in  sleep, 
My  hand  upon  thy  heart !  —  not  fit  to  lie, 
For  all  thy  bleeding,  by  me  in  the  grave  ! 

l^His  eye  falls  en  that  likeness  of  fesjts  said  to  be  copied  from 
an  emerald  engraved  for  Tiberius.  He  gazes,  drops  on 
his  knees,  and  covers  his  face  ;  retnains  motionless  a  long 
time;  then  rises  very  pale,  his  lips  compressed,  his  eyes 
filled  with  tears. 

O  my  poor  Lilia  !  my  bewildered  child  ! 
How  shall  I  win  thee,  save  thee,  make  thee  mine  ? 


158  WITHIN  AND    WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

Where  art   thou   wandering?     What   words   in   thine 

ears  ? 
God,  can  she  never  more  be  clean  ?  no  more, 
Through  all  the  terrible  years  ?     Hast  thou  no  well 
In  all  thy  heaven,  in  all  thyself,  that  can 
Wash  her  soul  clean  ?     Her  body  will  go  down 
Into  the  friendly  earth  —  would  it  were  lying 
There  in  my  arms  ;  for  there  thy  rains  will  come, 
Fresh  from  the  sky,  slow  sinking  through  the  sod, 
Summer  and  winter  ;  and  we  two  should  lie 
Mouldering  away  together,  gently  washed 
Into  the  heart  of  earth  ;  and  part  would  float 
Forth  on  the  sunny  breezes  that  bear  clouds 
Through  the  thin  air.     But  her  stained  soul,  my  God  ! 
Canst   thou    not   cleanse  it  ?     Then  should  we,  when 

death 
Was  gone^  creep  into  heaven  at  last,  and  sit 
In  some  still  place  together,  glory-shadowed. 
None  would  ask  questions  there.     And  I  should  be 
Content  to  sorrow  a  little,  so  I  might 
But  see  her  with  the  dailing  on  her  knees. 
And  know  that  must  be  pure  that  dwelt  within 
The  circle  of  thy  glory.     Lilia  !  Lilia  ! 


Scene  X.  WITPIIN   AND   WITHOUT.  1 59 

I  scorn  the  shame  rushing  from  head  to  foot ; 

I  would  endure  it  endlessly,  to  save 

One  thought  of  thine  from  his  polluting  touch  ; 

Saying  ever  to  m3^self :  This  is  a  part 

Of  my  own  Lilia  ;  and  the  world  to  me 

Is  nothing  since  I  lost  the  smiles  of  her : 

Somehow,  I  know  not  how,  she  faded  from  me, 

And  this  is  all  that's  left  of  her.     My  wife  1 

Soul  of  my  soul  !  my  oneness  with  myself ! 

Come  back  to  me  ;  I  will  be  all  to  thee  ; 

Back  to  my  heart ;  and  we  will  weep  together, 

And  pray  to  God  together  every  hour, 

That  He  would  show  how  strong  He  is  to  save. 

The  One  that  made  is  able  to  renew  : 

I  know  not  how.     I'll  hold  thy  heart  to  mine. 

So  close  that  the  defilement  needs  must  go. 

My  love  shall  ray  thee  round,  and,  strong  as  fire. 

Dart     through    and    through    thy     soul,     till    it     be 

cleansed. 
But  if  she  love  him  ?     O,  my  heart  —  beat !  beat ! 
Grow  not  so  sick  with  misery  and  life. 
For  fainting  will  not  save  thee.     O,  no  !  no  ! 
She  cannot  love  him  as  she  must  love  me. 


l6o  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV 

Then  if  she  love  him  not,  O  horrible  !  O  God  ! 

[He  stands  in  a  stupor  for  some  minutes. 

What  devil  whispered  that  vile  word,  wiclean  ? 

I  care  not  —  loving  more  than  that  can  touch. 

Let  me  be  shamed,  aye,  perish  in  my  shame, 

As  men  call  perishing,  so  she  be  saved. 

Saved  !  my  beloved  !  my  Lilia  !  alas  ! 

Would  she  were  here,  and  I  would  make  her  weep. 

Till  her  soul  wept  itself  to  purity. 

Far,  far  away  !  where  my  love  cannot  reach. 
No,  no  ;  she  is  not  gone. 

[^Starting  and  pacing  wildly  through  the  room. 
It  is  a  lie  — 
Deluding  blind  revenge,  not  keen-eyed  love. 
I  must  do  something.  [Enter  Lily. 

Ah  !  there's  the  precious  thing 
That  shall  entice  her  back. 

[Kneeling  and  clasping  the  child  to  his  heart. 

My  little  Lily, 
I  have  lost  your  mother. 

■L'^l^y-  O  !  [Beginning  to  zoeep. 


She  was  so  pretty, 


Somebody  has  stolen  her. 


Scene  XI.  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  l6l 

jfidiaii.  Will  you  go  with  me, 

And  help  me  look  for  her  t 

Lily.  O  yes,  I  will. 

\Claspiiig  hhn  round  the  neck. 
But  my  head  aches  so  !     Will  you  carry  me  ? 

Julian.   Yes,  my   own    darling.      Come,    we'll   get 

your  bonnet. 
Lily.    O  !    you've    been   crying,  father.       You're   so 
white  !  {Putting  her  finger  to  his  cheek. 

Scene  XL  —  A  table  in  a  club-rootn.  Severdl  Gentlemen  seated 
ro2ind  it.      To  them  enter  another. 

isf   Gentleman.    Why,    Bernard,    you    look    heated ; 

what's  the  matter  t 
Bernard.  Hot   work,    as    looked    at ;   cool   enough, 

as  done. 
2d  G.  A  good  antithesis,  as  usual,  Bernard  , 
But  a  shell  too  hard  for  the  vulgar  teeth 
Of  our  impatient  curiosity. 

Bernard.  Most  unexpectedly  I  found  myself 
Spectator  of  a  scene  in  a  home-drama 
Worth  all  stage  tragedies  I  ever  saw. 
II 


l62  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

All.  What  was  it  ?     Tell  us,  then.     Here,  take  this 
seat.     [He  sits  at  the  table,  and  pmirs  out  a  glass  of  wine. 

Bernard.  I  went  to  call  on  Seaford,  and  was  told 
He  had  gone  to  town.     So  I,  as  privileged. 
Went  to  his  cabinet  to  write  a  note  ; 
Which  finished,  I  came  down,  and  called  his  valet. 
Just  as  I  crossed  the  hall  I  heard  a  voice  — 
"  The  Countess  Lamballa  —  is  she  here  to-day  ?  " 
And  looking  towards  the  door  I  caught  a  glimpse 
Of  a  tall  figure,  gaunt  and  stooping,  drest 
In  a  blue  shabby  frock  down  to  his  knees, 
And  on  his  left  arm  sat  a  little  child. 
The  porter  gave  short  answer,  with  the  door 
For  period  to  the  same ;  when,  like  a  flash, 
It  flew  wide  open,  and  the  serving  man 
Went  reeling,  staggering  backward  to  the  stairs, 
'Gainst  which  he  fell,  and,  rolling  down,  lay  stunned. 
In  walked  the  visitor ;  but  in  the  moment 
Just  measured  by  the  closing  of  the  door, 
Heavens  !  what  a  change  !     He  walked  erect,  as  if 
Heading  a  column,  with  an  eye  and  face 
As  if  a  fountain-shaft  of  blood  had  shot 
Up  suddenly  within  his  wasted  frame. 


Scene  XL  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  163 

The  child  sat  on  his  arm  quite  still  and  pale, 
But  with  a  look  of  triumph  in  her  eyes. 
Of  me  he  took  no  notice  j  came  right  on  ; 
Looked  in  each  room  that  opened  from  the  hall  ; 
In  every  motion  calm  as  glacier's  flow, 
Save  now  and  then  a  movement,  sudden,  quick, 
Of  his  right  hand  across  to  his  left  side : 
'Twas  plain  he  had  been  used  to  carry  arms. 

3^  G.  Did  no  one  stop  him  ? 

Bernard.  Stop  him  ?  I'd  as  soon 

Have  faced  a  tiger  with  bare  hands.     'Tis  easy 
In  passion  to  meet  passion  ;  but  it  is 
A  daunting  thing  to  look  on,  when  the  blood 
Is  going  its  wonted  pace  through  your  own  veins. 
Besides,  this  man  had  something  in  his  face, 
With  its  live  eyes,  close  lips,  nostrils  distended, 
A  self-reliance,  and  a  self-command, 
That  would  go  right  up  to  his  goal,  in  spite 
Of  any  no  from  any  man.     I  would 
As  soon  have  stopped  a  cannon-ball  as  him. 
Over  the  porter,  lying  wdiere  he  fell. 
He  strode,  and  up  the  stairs.     I  heard  him  go  — 
I  listened  as  it  were  a  ghost  that  walked 


164  WITHIN  AND    WITHOUT.  Part  IV 

With  pallid  spectre-child  upon  its  arm  — 

Along  the  corridors,  from  door  to  door, 

Opening  and  shutting.     But  at  last  a  sting 

Of  sudden  fear  lest  he  should  find  the  lady, 

And  mischief  follow,  shot  me  up  the  stairs. 

I  met  him  half-way  down,  quiet  as  at  first ; 

The  fire  had  faded  from  his  eyes  ;  the  child 

Held  in  her  tiny  hand  a  lady's  glove 

Of  delicate  primrose.     When  he  reached  the  hall, 

He  turned  him  to  the  porter,  who  had  scarce 

Lifted  him  from  the  floor,  and  saying  thus : 

"  The  Count  Lamballa  waited  on  Lord  Seaford," 

Turned  him  again,  and  strode  into  the  street. 

1st  G.  Have  you  got  hold  of  any  clew  .? 

Bernard.  Not  any. 

Of  course  he  had  suspicions  of  his  wife  ; 
For  all  the  gifts  a  woman  has  to  give, 
I  would  not  rouse  such  blood.     And  yet  to  see 
The  gentle  fairy  child  fall  kissing  him, 
And,  with  her  little  arms  grasping  his  neck, 
Peep  anxious  round  into  his  shaggy  face, 
As  they  went  down  the  street !  —  it  almost  made 
A  fool  of  me.     I'd  marry  for  such  a  child  ! 


Scene  XII.        WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  165 


Scene  XII.  —  A  by-street.  Julian  walking  home  very  weary. 
The  child  in  his  ai'ins,  her  head  lying  on  his  shoulder.  An  Or- 
GAN-BOY  with  a  monkey,  sitting  on  a  door-step.  He  sings  in  a 
low  voice. 

yulian.  Look  at  the  monkey,  Lily. 
Lily.  No,  dear  father ; 

I  do  not  like  monkeys. 

yulian.  Hear  the  poor  boy  sing. 

[  They  listen.     He  sings. 
SONG. 

Wenn  ich  hore  dich  mir  nah', 
Stimmen  in  den  Blattern  da  ; 
Wenn  ich  fiihl'  dich  weit  und  breit, 
Vater,  das  ist  Seligkeit. 

Nun  die  Sonne  Hebend  scheint, 
Mich  mit  dir  und  All  vereint ; 
Biene  zu  den  Blumen  fliegt, 
Seel'  an  Lieb'  sich  liebend  schmiegt. 

So  mich  vollig  lieb  du  hast, 
Daseyn  ist  nicht  eine  Last ; 
Wenn  ich  seh'  und  hore  dich, 
Das  geniigt  mir  inniglich. 

Lily.  It  sounds  so    curious.     What    is  he    saying, 
father .? 


1 66  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

yulian.  My  boy,  you  are  not  German  ? 

Boy.  No  ;  my  mother 

Came  from  those  parts.     She  used  to  sing  the  song. 
I  hardly  understand  it  all  myself, 
For  I  was  born  in  Genoa.     Ah  !  my  mother  !       \_Wt'eps. 

yuliaii.  My  mother  was  a  German,  my  poor  boy  ; 

My  father  was  Italian  :  I  am  like  you. 

[Givhig  kifn  money 

You  sing  of  leaves  and  sunshine,  flowers  and  bees, 

Poor  child,  upon  a  stone  in  the  dark  street  ? 

Boy.  My  mother  sings  it  in  her  grave  ;  and  I 

Will  sing  it  everywhere,  until  I  die. 

Scene  XIII. — Lilta's  room.    Julian    enters   wilk  the    child, 
undresses  her,  and  puts  her  to  bed. 

Lily.  Father  does  all  things  for  his  little  Lily. 
yulia7i.  Dear,  dear  Lily  !     Go  to  sleep,  my  pet. 

\Sitting  by  her. 

"  Wenn  ich  seh'  und  hore  dich, 
Das  geniigt  mir  inniglich.  "     {Falling  on  his  kjices. 

I  come  to  thee,  and,  lying  on  thy  breast, 

Father  of  me,  I  tell  thee  in  thine  ear, 

Half-shrinking  from  the  sound,  yet  speaking  free, 

That  thou  art  not  enough  for  me,  my  God. 


Scene  XIII.       WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  1 67 

O,  dearly  do  I  love  thee  !     Look  j  no  fear 

Lest  thou  shouldst  be  offended,  touches  me. 

Herein  I  know  thy  love  ;  mine  casts  out  fear. 

O  give  me  back  my  wife ;  thou  without  her 

Canst  never  make  me  blessed  to  the  full.  [Silence, 

O  yes  ;  thou  art  enough  for  me,  my  God  ; 
Part  of  th)  self  she  is,  else  never  mine. 
My  need  of  her  is  but  thy  thought  of  me  ; 
She  is  the  offspring  of  thy  beauty,  God  ; 
Yea  of  the  womanhood  that  dwells  in  thee  : 
Thou  wilt  restore  her  to  my  very  soul.  [Rising. 

It  may  be  all  a  lie.     Some  needful  cause 
Keeps  her  away.     Wretch  that  I  am,  to  think 
One  moment  that  my  wife  could  sin  against  me  ! 
She  will  come  back  to-night.     I  know  she  will.' 
How  shall  I  answer  for  such  jealousy  ! 
For  that  fool-visit  to  Lord  Seaford's  house  \ 

[His  eyes  fall  on  the  glove  7vhich  the  child  still  holds  in  hef 
sleeping  hand.  He  takes  it  gently  away,  a7id  hides  it  in 
his  bosom. 

It  will  be  all  explained.     To  think  I  should, 
Without  one  word  from  her,  condemn  her  so  ! 
What  can  I  say  to  her  when  she  reurns  ? 


1 68  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

I  shall  be  utterly  ashamed  before  her. 

She  will  come  back  to-night.     I  know  she  will. 

\_He  throws  himself  wearily  on  the  bed. 

Scene  XIV.  —  Crozvd  about  the  Italian  Opera-Honse.    Julian. 
Lily  in  his  arfus.     Three  Students. 

\st  Student.  Edward,  you  see  that  long,  lank,  thread- 
bare man  t 
There  is  a  character  for  that  same  novel 
You  talk  of  thunder-striking  London  with, 
One  of  these  days. 

2d  St.  I  scarcely  noticed  him  ; 

I  was  so  taken  with  the  lovely  child. 
She  is  angelic. 

Tyd  St.  You  see  angels  always, 

Where  others,  more  dim-sighted,  see  but  mortals. 
She  is  a  pretty  child.     Her  eyes  are  splendid. 
I  wonder  what  the  old  fellow  is  about. 
Some  crazed  enthusiast,  music-distract, 
That  lingers  at  the  door  he  cannot  enter ! 
Give  him  an  obol,  Frank,  to  pay  old  Charon, 
And  cross  to  the  Elysium  of  sweet  sounds. 
Here's  mine. 


Scene  XV.         WITHIN  AND   WITHOJT.  169 

ist  St.  And  mine. 

2d  St.  And  mine. 

[3^  Student  offers  the  money  to  Julian. 
yuliaJi  {very  quietly).  No,  tliank  you,  sir. 

Lily.   O,  there  is  mother  ! 

[Stretching  her  hands  towards  a  lady  stepping  out  of  a  car- 
riage. 

jfiUian.  No,  no  ;  hush,  my  child  ! 

\The  lady   looks   round,   and    LiLY   clings   to   her  father. 
Women  talking. 

1st   W.  I'm  sure  he's  stolen  the  child.     She  can't  be 

his. 
id  IV.  There's  a  suspicious  look  about  him. 
Sd   IV.  True; 

But  the  child  clings  to  him  as  if  she  loved  him. 

[Julian  moves  on  sloxvly. 

Scene  XV.  —  Julian  seated  in  his  room,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
floor.     Lily  playing  in  a  corner. 

yulian.  Though  I  am  lonely,  yet  this  little  child  — 
She  understands  me  better  than  the  Twelve 
Knew  Ihe  great  heart  of  Him  they  called  their  Lord. 

Ten  times  last  night  I  woke  in  agony, 
I  knew  not  why.     There  was  no  comforter. 


I/O  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

I  stretched  my  arm  to  find  her,  and  her  place 
Was  empty  as  my  heart.     Though  wide  awake, 
Sometimes  my  pain,  benumbed  by  its  own  being, 
Forgets  its  cause,  and  I  would  lay  my  head 
Upon  her  breast  —  that  promises  relief : 
I  lift  my  eyes,  and  lo,  the  vacant  world ! 

{He  looks  up  and  sees  the  child  playing  tvith  his  dagger. 

You'll  hurt  yourself,  my  child  ;  it  is  too  sharp. 
Give  it  to  me,  my  darling.     Thank  you,  dear. 

{He  breaks  the  hilt  from  the  blade  and  gives  it  her. 

Here,  take  the  pretty  part.     It's  not  so  pretty 

As  it  was  once  —  [Thinking aloud. 

I  picked  the  jewels  out 
To  buy  your  mother  the  last  dress  I  gave  her. 
There's  just  one  left,  I  see,  for  you,  my  Lily. 

Why  did  I  kill  Nembroni  ?     Poor  saviour  I, 
Leading  thee  only  to  a  greater  ill  ! 

If  thou  wert  dead,  the  child  would  comfort  me ; 
Is  she  not  part  of  thee,  and  all  my  own  .'' 
But  now  — 

Lily  {throwing  down  the  dagger-hilt.,  and  running  up 
to  him).     Father,  what  is  a  poetry  ? 

Julian.   A  beautiful  thing,  —  of  the  most  beautiful 
That  God  has  made. 


Scene  XV.  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  171 

Lily.  As  beautiful  as  mother  ? 

Julian.  No,  my  dear  child  ;  but  very  beautiful. 
Lily.  Do  let  me  see  a  poetry. 
yulian  {opening  a  book).  There,  love. 

Lily  {disappointedly).     I  don't  think  that's  so  very 
pretty,  father. 
One  side  is  very  well  —  smooth  ;  but  the  other 

\Ricbbing  her  finger  tip  and  down  the  ends  of  the  lines. 
Is  rough,  rough  ;  just  like  my  hair  in  the  morning, 

\S1noothi71g  her  hair  down  with  both  hajtds. 
Before  it's  brushed.     I  don't  care  much  about  it. 

Julian  {putting  the  book  doum,  and  taking  her  on  his 
knee).  You  do  not  understand  it  yet,  my  child. 
You  cannot  know  where  it  is  beautiful. 
But  though  you  do  not  see  it  very  pretty, 
Perhaps  your  little  ears  could  hear  it  pretty.     [^^  'reads 
Lily  {looking pleased).  O,  that's  much  prettier,  father 
Very  pretty. 
It  sounds  so  nice  !  —  not  half  so  pretty  as  mother. 
Julian.  There's  something  in  it  very  beautiful, 
If  I  could  let  you  see  it.     When  you're  older. 
You'll  find  it  for  yourself,  and  love  it  well. 
Do  you  believe  me,  Lily  ? 


172  WITHIN  AND    WITHOUT.  Part  IV 

Lily.  Yes,  dear  father. 

\Kissing  him,  then  looking  at  the  book. 

I  wonder  where  its  prettiness  is^  though  ; 
I  cannot  see  it  anywhere  at  all. 

\He  sets  her  dozoii.     She  goes  to  her  corner. 

Julian    {inusing).  True,  there's  not  much  in  me  to 

love,  and  yet 
I  feel  worth  loving.     I  am  very  poor, 
But  that  I  could  not  help  ;  and  I  grow  old, 
But  there  are  saints  in  heaven  older  than  I. 
I  have  a  world  within  me  ;  there  I  thought 
I  had  a  wealth  of  lovely,  precious  things,  — 
Laid  up  for  thinking  ;  shady  woods,  and  grass  ; 
Clear  streams  rejoicing  down  their  sloping  channels  ; 
And  glimmering  daylight  in  the  cloven  east  ; 
There  morning  sunbeams  stand,  a  vapory  column, 
'Twixt  the  dark  boles  of  solemn  forest  trees  ; 
There,    spokes   of    the    sun-wheel,    that    cross    their 

bridge, 
Break    through   the    arch    of  the    clouds,  fall    on    the 

earth, 
And  travel  round,  as  the  wind  blows  the  clouds  : 
The  distant  meadows  and  the  gloomy  river 


Scene  XV.        WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  173 

Shine  out  as  over  them  the  ray-pencil  sweeps. 

Alas  !  where  am  I  ?     Beauty  now  is  torture  : 

Of  this  fair  world  I  would  have  made  her  queen  ; 

Then  led  her  through  the  shadowy  gates  beyond 

Into  that  farther  world  of  things  unspoken, 

Of  which  these  glories  are  the  outer  stars, 

The  clouds  that  float  within  its  atmosphere. 

Under  tlie  holy  might  of  teaching  love, 

I  thought  her  eyes  would  open  —  see  how,  far 

And  near,  Truth  spreads  her  empire,  widening  out, 

And  brooding,  a  still  spirit,  everywhere  ; 

Thought  she  would  turn  into  her  spirit's  chamber, 

Open  the  little  window,  and  look  forth 

On  the  wide  silent  ocean,  silent  winds. 

And  see  what  she  must  see,  I  could  not  tell. 

By  sounding  mighty  chords  I  strove  to  wake 

The  sleeping  music  of  her  poet-soul  : 

We  read  together  many  magic  words  ; 

Gazed  on  the  forms  and  hues  of  ancient  art ; 

Sent  forth  our  souls  on  the  same  tide  of  sound ; 

Worshipped  beneath  the  same  high  temple-roofs  ; 

And  evermore  I  talked.     I  was  too  proud. 

Too  confident  of  power  to  waken  life, 


174  WITHIN   AND  WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

Believing  in  my  might  upon  her  heart, 

Not  trusting  in  the  strength  of  Hving  truth. 

Unhappy  saviour,  who  by  force  of  self 

Would  save  from  selfishness  and  narrow  needs ! 

I  have  not  been  a  saviour.     She  grew  weary. 

I  began  wrong.     The  infinitely  High, 

Made  manifest  in  lowliness,  had  been 

The  first,  one  lesson.     Had  I  brought  her  there. 

And  set  her  down  by  humble  Mary's  side, 

He  would  have  taught  her  all  I  could  not  teach. 

Yet,  O  my  God  !  why  hast  thou  made  me  thus 

Terribly  wretched,  and  beyond  relief? 

[He  looks  up  attd  sees  that  the  child  has  taken  the  hook  to  her 
corner.  She  peeps  into  it ;  then  holds  it  to  her  ear  ;  the  ft 
rubs  her  hand  over  it ;  then  puts  her  tongue  on  it. 

yulian  {bursting  into  tears).     Father,  1  am  thy  child. 

Forgive  me  this  : 

Thy  poetry  is  very  hard  to  read. 

Scene  XVI.  —  Julian   walking  with   Lily  through   one  of  the 
squares. 

Lily.  Wish  we  could  find  her  somewhere.     'Tis  so 

sad 

Not  to  have  any  mother  !     Shall  I  ask 

This  gentlem:in  if  he  knows  where  she  is  t 


Scene  XVI.        WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  1 75 

yulian.  No,  no,   m}^  love ;    we'll    find    her   by  and 
by. 
Bernard  and  another  Gentleman  talking  together' 

Berfiard.   Have  you  seen  Seaford  lately  ? 

Gentleman.  No.     In  fact, 

He  vanished  somewhat  oddly,  days  ago. 
Sam  saw  him  with  a  lady  in  his  cab  ; 
And  if  I  hear  aright,  one  more  is  missing  — 
Just  the  companion  for  his  lordship's  taste. 
You've  not  forgot  that  fine  Italian  woman 
You  met  there  once,  some  months  ago  ? 

Bent.  Forgot  her  1 

I  have  to  try  though,  sometimes  —  hard  enough. 

Lily.  Mother  was  Italy,  father  —  was  she  not  ? 

Julian.  Hush,  hush,  my  child  !  you  must  not  say  a 
word. 

Bern.  Her  husband  is  alive. 

Gentletnafi.  O,  yes  !  he  is  ; 

But  what  of  that  —  a  poor  half-crazy  creature  ! 

Bern.  Something    quite    different,    I    assure    you, 
Harry. 
Last  week  I  saw  him  —  never  to  forget  him  — 
Ranging  through  Seaford's    house,  like    the    questing 
beast. 


I/O  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

Gentleman.     Better    please     two    than    one,     they 
thought,  no  doubt. 
I  am  not  the  one  to  blame  him  ;  she  is  a  prize 
Worth  sinning  for  a  little  more  than  little. 

Lily  {whispering).  Why  don't  you  ask  them  whether 
it  was  mother  ? 
I  am  sure  it  was.     I  am  quite  sure  of  it. 

Ge7itleman.  Look  what  a  lovely  child  ! 

Ber?i.  Henry  !     Good  heavens  ! 

It  is  the  Count  Lamballa.     Come  along. 

Scene  XVII.  —  Julian'' s  roo7n.    Julian.     \^\ix  asleep. 
Julian.  I  thank  thee.     Thou   hast    comforted    me, 
thou, 
To  whom  I  never  lift  my  soul,  in  hope 
To  reach  thee  with  my  thinking,  but  the  tears 
Swell  up  and  fill  my  eyes  from  the  full  heart 
That  cannot  hold  the  thought  of  thee,  the  thought 
Of  Ilim  in  whom  I  live,  who  lives  in  me, 
And  makes  me  live  in  Him  ;  by  whose  one  thought, 
Alone,  unreachable,  the  making  thought. 
Infinite  and  self-bounded,  I  am  here, 
A  living,  thinking  will,  that  cannot  know 


Scene  XVII.      WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  177 

The  power  whereby  I  am  —  so  blest  the  more 

In  being  thus  in  thee  —  Father,  thy  child. 

I  cannot,  cannot  speak  the  thoughts  in  me. 

My  being  shares  thy  glory :  lay  on  me 

What  thou  wouldst  have  me  bear.     Do  thou  with  me 

Whate'er  thou  wilt.     Tell  me  thy  will,  that  I 

May  do  it  as  my  best,  my  highest  joy  ; 

For  thou  dost  work  in  me,  I  dwell  in  thee. 

Wilt  thou  not  save  my  wife  }     I  cannot  know 
The  power  in  thee  to  purify  from  sin. 
But  Life  can  cleanse  the  life  it  lived  alive. 
Thou  knowest  all  that  lesseneth  her  fault. 
She  loves  me  not,  I  know  —  ah  !  my  sick  heart ! 
I  will  love  her  the  more,  to  fill  the  cup  ; 
One  bond  is  snapped,  the  other  shall  be  doubled  ; 
For  if  I  love  her  not,  how  desolate 
'ihe  poor  child  will  be  left !  /le  loves  her  not. 

I  have  but  one  prayer  left  to  pray  to  thee  — 
Give  me  my  wife  again,  that  I  may  watch 
And  weep  with  her,  and  pray  with  her,  and  tell 
What  loving-kindness  I  have  found  in  thee  ; 
And  she  will  come  to  thee  to  make  her  clean. 
Her  soul  must  wake  as  from  a  dream  of  bliss, 


178  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

To  know  a  dead  one  lieth  in  the  house  : 
Let  me  be  near  her  in  that  agony, 
To  tend  her  in  the  fever  of  the  soul, 
Bring  her  cool  waters  from  the  wells  of  hope. 
Look  forth  and  tell  her  that  the  morn  is  nigh  ; 
And  when  I  cannot  comfort,  help  her  weep. 
God,  I  would  give  her  love  like  thine  to  me, 
Because  I  love  her,  and  her  need  is  great. 
Lord,  I  need  her  far  more  than  thou  need'st  me, 
And  thou  art  Love  down  to  the  deeps  of  hell : 
Help  me  to  love  her  with  a  love  like  thine. 

How  shall  I  find  her  ?     It  were  horrible 
If  the  dread  hour  should  come,  and  I  not  near. 
Yet  pray  I  not  she  should  be  spared  one  pang, 
One  writhing  of  self-loathing  and  remorse  ; 
For  she  must  hate  the  evil  she  has  done. 
Only  take  not  away  hope  utterly. 

Lily  {in  her  sleep).     Lily  means  me  —  don't  throw  it 
over  the  wall. 

yulian  {going  to  her).     She  is  so  flushed  !  I  fear  the 
child  is  ill. 
I  have  fatigued  her  too  much,  wandering  restless. 
To-morrow  I  will  take  her  to  the  sea.  [Returning. 


Scene  XVII.       WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  I79 

If  I  knew  where,  I'd  write  to  her,  and  write 
So  tenderly,  she  could  not  choose  but  come. 
I  will  write  now  ;  I'll  tell  her  that  strange  dream 
[  dreamed  last  night :  'twill  comfort  her  as  well. 

\^He  sits  down  and  writes. 

My  heart  was  crushed  that  I  could  hardly  breathe. 
I  was  alone  upon  a  desolate  moor  ; 
And  the  wind  blew  by  fits  and  died  away  — 
I  know  not  if  it  was  the  wind  or  me. 
How  long  I  wandered  there,  I  cannot  tell ; 
But  some  one  came  and  took  me  by  the  hand. 
I  gazed  but  could  not  see  the  form  that  led  me, 
And  went  unquestioning,  I  cared  not  whither. 
We  came  into  a  street  I  seemed  to  know. 
Came  to  a  house  that  I  had  seen  before. 
The  shutters  were  all  closed  ;  the  house  was  dead. 
The  door  went  open  soundless.     We  went  in, 
And  entered  yet  again  an  inner  room. 
The  darkness  was  so  dense,  I  shrunk  as  if 
From  striking  on  it.     The  door  closed  behind. 
And  then  I  saw  that  there  was  something  black, 
Dark  in  the  blackness  of  the  night,  heaved  up 
In  the  middle  of  the  room.     And  then  I  saw 


l80  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

That  there  were  shapes  of  woe  all  round  the  room, 

Like  women  in  long  mantles,  bent  in  grief. 

With  long  veils  hanging  low  down  from  their  heads, 

All  blacker  in  the  darkness.     Not  a  sound 

Broke  the  death-stillness.     Then  the  shapeless  thing 

Began  to  move.     Four  horrid  muffled  figures 

Had  lifted,  bore  it  from  the  room.     We  followed, 

The  bending  woman-shapes,  and  I.     We  left 

The  house  in  long  procession.     I  was  walking 

Alone  beside  the  coffin  —  such  it  was  — 

Now  in  the  glimmering  light  I  saw  the  thing. 

And  now  I  saw  and  knew  the  woman-shapes : 

Undine  clothed  in  spray,  and  heaving  up 

White  arms  of  lamentation  ;  Desdemona 

In  her  night-robe,  crimson  on  the  left  side  ; 

Thekla  in  black,  with  resolute  white  face  ; 

And  Margaret  in  fetters,  gliding  slow  — 

That  last  look,  when  she  shrieked  on  Henry,  frozen 

Upon  her  face.     And  many  more  I  knew  — 

Long-suffering  women,  true  in  heart  and  life  ; 

Women  that  make  man  proud  for  very  love 

Of  their  humility,  and  of  his  pride 

Ashamed.     And  in  the  coffin  lay  my  wife. 


Scene  XVII.      WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  l8l 

On,  on,  we  went.     The  scene  changed.     For  the  hills 
Began  to  rise  from  either  side  the  path. 
At  last  we  came  into  a  narrow  glen, 
From  which  the  mountains  rose  abrupt  to  heaven, 
Shot  cones  and  pinnacles  into  the  skies. 
Upon  the  eastern  side  one  mighty  summit 
Shown  with  its  snow  faint  through  the  dusky  air. 
Upon  its  sides  the  glaciers  gave  a  tint, 
A  dull  metallic  gleam,  to  the  slow  night. 

From  base  to  top,  on  climbing  peak  and  crag, 
Aye,  on  the  glaciers'  breast,  were  human  shapes. 
Motionless,  waiting ;  men  that  trod  the  earth 
Like  gods  ;  or  forms  ideal  that  inspired 
Great  men  of  old  —  up,  even  to  the  apex 
Of  the  snow-spear-point.     Moming  had  arisen 
From  Giulian's  tomb  in  Florence,  where  the  chisel 
Of  Michelagnolo  laid  him  reclining. 
And  stood  upon  the  crest. 

A  cry  awoke 
Amid  the  watchers  at  the  lowest  base, 
And  swelling  rose,  and  sprang  from  mouth  to  mouth, 
Up  the  vast  mountain,  to  its  aerial  top  ; 
And  "/$•  God  coming  1 "  was  the  cry  ;  which  died 
Away  in  silence  ;  for  no  voice  said  No, 


1 82  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

The  bearers  stood  and  set  the  coffin  down; 
The  mourners  gathered  round  it  in  a  group  ; 
Somewhat  apart  I  stood,  I  know  not  why. 

So  minutes  passed.  Again  that  cry  awoke, 
And  clomb  the  mountain-side,  and  died  away 
In  the  thin  air,  far-lost.     No  answer  came. 

How  long  we  waited  thus,  I  cannot  tell  — 
How  oft  the  cry  arose  and  died  again. 

At  last,  from  far,  faint  summit  to  the  base, 
Filling  the  mountain  with  a  throng  of  echoes, 
A  mighty  voice  descended  :  ^'■God  is  coming  !  " 

0  !  what  a  music  clothed  the  mountain-side. 
From  all  that  multitude's  melodious  throats, 
Of  joy  and  lamentation  and  strong  prayer  ! 
It  ceased,  for  hope  was  too  intense  for  song. 
A  pause.     The  figure  on  the  crest  flashed  out. 
Bordered  with  light.     The  sun  was  rising —  rose 
Higher  and  higher  still.     One  ray  fell  keen 
Upon  the  coffin  'mid  the  circling  group. 

What  God  did  for  the  rest,  I  know  not  ;  it 
Was  easy  to  help  them.     I  saw  them  not. 

1  saw  thee  at  my  feet,  my  wife,  my  own  ! 
Thy  lovely  face  angelic  now  with  grief; 


Scene  XVIII.    WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  183 

But  that  I  saw  not  first  :  thy  head  was  bent, 

Thou  on  thy  knees,  thy  dear  hands  clasped  between. 

I  sought  to  raise  thee,  but  thou  wouldst  not  rise, 

Once  only  lifting  that  sweet  face  to  mine, 

Then  turning  it  to  earth.     Would  God  the  dream 

Had  lasted  ever  !     No  ;  'twas  but  a  dream  ; 

Thou  art  not  rescued  yet. 

Earth's  morning  came, 
And  my  soul's  morning  died  in  tearful  gray. 
The  last  I  saw  was  thy  white  shroud  yet  steeped 
In  that  sun-glory  all-transfiguring. 
And  as  a  slow  chant  blossomed  suddenly 
Into  an  anthem,  silence  took  me  like  sound  : 
I  had  not  listened  in  the  excess  of  joy. 

Scene    XVIII.  —  Portsmouth.     A    bedroom.     Lord    Seaford. 
Lady  Gertrude. 

Lord  S.  'Tis    for   your  sake,    my   Gertrude,    I    am 
sorry. 
If  you  could  go  alone,  I'd  have  you  go. 

Zady  Gertrude.   And    leave   you   ill  ?    No,  you  are 
not  so  cruel. 
Believe  me,  father,  I  am  happier 


1 84  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

In  your  sick  room,  than  on  a  glowing  island 
In  the  blue  Bay  of  Naples. 

Lord  S.  It  was  so  sudden  ! 

I  fear  it  will  not  go  again  as  quickly. 
But  have  your  walk  before  the  sun  be  hot. 
Put  the  ice  near  me,  child.     There,  that  will  do. 

Lady   Gertrude.    Good-by    then^    father,  for    a  little 
while.  {Goes, 

Lord  S.  I  never  knew  what  illness  was  before. 
O  life  !  to  think  a  man  should  stand  so  little 
On  his  own  will  and  choice,  as  to  be  thus 
Cast  from  his  high  throne  suddenly,  and  sent 
To  grovel  beast-like.     All  the  glow  is  gone 
From  the  rich  world  !     No  sense  is  left  me  more 
To  touch  with  beauty.     Even  she  has  faded 
Into  the  far  horizon,  a  spent  dream 
Of  love  and  loss  and  passionate  despair. 

Is  there  no  beauty  ?     Is  it  all  a  show 
Flung  outward  from  the  healthy  blood  and  nerves, 
A  reflex  of  well-ordered  organism  ? 
Is  earth  a  desert  ?     Is  a  woman's  heart 
No  more  mysterious,  no  more  beautiful, 
Than  I  am  to  myself  this  ghastly  moment  ? 


Scene  XVIII.    WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  1 85 

It  must  be  so  —  it  7nHst,  except  God  is, 

And  means  the  meaning  that  we  think  we  see, 

Sends  forth  the  beauty  we  are  taking  in. 

O  Soul  of  nature,  if  thou  art  not,  if 

There  dwelt  not  in  thy  thought  the  primrose-flower 

Before  it  blew  on  any  bank  of  spring, 

Then  all  is  untruth,  unreality. 

And  we  are  wretched  things  ;  our  highest  needs 

Are  less  than  we,  the  offspring  of  ourselves  ; 

And  when  we  are  sick,  they  are  not  ;  and  our  hearts 

Die  with  the  voidness  of  the  universe. 

But  if  thou  art,  O  God,  then  all  is  true  ; 

Nor  are  thy  thoughts  less  radiant  that  our  eyes 

Are  filmy,  and  the  weary,  troubled  brain 

Throbs  in  an  endless  round  of  its  own  dreams. 

And  she  is  beautiful  —  and  I  have  lost  her ! 

O  God  !  thou  art,  thou  art  ;  and  I  have  sinned 
Against  thy  beauty  and  thy  graciousness  ! 
That  woman-splendor  was  not  mine,  but  thine. 
Thy  thought  passed  into  form,  that  glory  passed 
Before  my  eyes,  a  bright  particular  star  : 
Like  foolish  child,  I  reached  out  for  the  star, 
Nor  kneeled,  nor  worshipped.     I  will  be  content 


1 86  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

That  she,  the  Beautiful,  dwells  on  in  thee, 
Mine  to  revere,  though  not  to  call  my  own. 
Forgive  me,  God  !  Forgive  me,  Lilia ! 

My  love  has  taken  vengeance  on  my  love. 
I  writhe  and  moan.     Yet  I  will  be  content. 
Yea  gladly  will  I  yield  thee,  so  to  find 
That  thou  art  not  a  phantom^  but  God's  child  ; 
That  Beauty  is,  though  it  is  not  for  me. 
When  I  would  hold  it,  then  I  disbelieved  : 
That  I  may  yet  believe,  I  will  not  touch  it. 
I  have  sinned  against  the  Soul  of  love  and  beauty, 
Denying  Him  in  grasping  at  his  work. 

Scene  XIX.  — A  counhy  church-yard.     Julian  seated  on  a  tomb- 
stone.     IaI-Y  gathering Jiowers  and  grass  among  the  graves. 

yuliati.  O  soft  place  of  the  earth !  down-pillowed 
couch. 
Made  ready  for  the  weary !     Everywhere, 
O  Earth,  thou  hast  one  gift  for  thy  poor  children  — 
Room  to  lie  down,  leave  to  cease  standing  up. 
Leave  to  return  to  thee,  and  in  thy  bosom 
Lie  in  the  luxury  of  primeval  peace. 
Fearless  of  anv  morn  :  as  a  new  babe 


Scene  XTX.       WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  1 87 

Lies  nestling  in  his  motlier's  arms  in  bed  : 
Tliat  home  of  blessedness  is  all  there  is ; 
He  never  feels  the  silent  rushing  tide, 
Strong  setting  for  the  sea,  which  bears  him  on, 
Unconscious,  helpless,  to  wide  consciousness. 
But  thou,  thank  God,  hast  this  warm  bed  at  last 
Ready  for  him  when  weary :  well  the  green 
Close-matted  coverlid  shuts  out  the  dawn. 
O  Lilia,  would  it  were  our  wedding-bed 
To  which  I  bore  thee  with  a  nobler  joy ! 
Alas !  there's  no  such  rest :  I  only  dream 
Poor  pagan  dreams  with  a  tired  Christian  brain. 

How  couldst  thou   leave   me,   my  poor  child?    my 
heart 
Was  all  so  tender  to  thee  !     But  I  fear 
My  face  was  not.     Alas  !  I  was  perplexed 
With  questions  to  be  solved,  before  my  face 
Could  turn  to  thee  in  peace  :  thy  part  in  me 
Fared  ill  in  troubled  workings  of  the  brain. 
Ah,  now  I  know  I  did  not  well  for  thee 
In  making  thee  my  wife.     I  should  have  gone 
Alone  into  eternity.     I  was 
Too  rough  for  thee,  for  any  tender  woman  — 


1 88  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV, 

Other  I  had  not  loved  —  so  full  of  fancies  I 

Too  given  to  meditation.     A  deed  of  love 

Is  stronger  than  a  metaphysic  truth  ; 

Smiles  better  teachers  than  the  mightiest  words. 

Thou,  who  wast  life,  not  thought,  how  couldst  thou 

help  it  ? 
How  love  me  on,  withdrawn  from  all  thy  sight  — 
For  life  must  ever  need  the  shows  of  life  ? 
How  fail  to  love  a  man  so  like  thyself, 
Whose  manhood  sought  thy  fainting  womanhood  ? 
I  brought  thee  pine-boughs^  rich  in  hanging  cones, 
But  never  white  flowers,  rubied  at  the  heart. 
O  God,  forgive  me  ;  it  is  all  my  fault. 
Would  I  have  had  dead  Love,  pain-galvanized, 
Led  fettered  after  me  by  jailer  Duty? 
Thou  gavest  me  a  woman  rich  in  heart, 
And  I  have  kept  her  like  a  caged  sea-mew 
Starved  by  a  boy,  who  weeps  when  it  is  dead. 

0  God,  my  eyes  are  opening  —  fearfully  : 

1  know  it  now  —  'twas  pride,  yes,  very  pride 
That  kept  me  back  from  speaking  all  my  soul. 
I  was  self-haunted,  self-possessed  —  the  worst 
Of  all  possessions.     Wherefore  did  I  never 


Scene  XIX.       WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  1 89 

Cast  all  my  being,  life  and  all,  on  hers, 

In  burning  words  of  openness  and  truth  ? 

Why  never  fling  my  doubts,  my  hopes,  my  love, 

Prone  at  her  feet  abandonedly  ?     Why  not 

Have  been  content  to  minister  and  wait  ; 

And  if  she  answered  not  to  my  desires. 

Have  smiled  and  waited  patient?     God,  they  say, 

Gives  years  a  hundred  to  an  aloe-flower  : 

I  gave  not  five  years  to  a  woman's  soul. 

Had  I  not  drunk  at  last  old  wine  of  love  ? 

I  flung  her  love  back  on  her  lovely  heart ; 

I  did  not  shield  her  in  the  wintry  day  ; 

And  she  has  withered  up  and  died  and  gone. 

God,  let  me  perish,  so  thy  beautiful 

Be  brought  with  gladness  and  with  singing  home. 

If  thou  wilt  give  her  back  to  me,  I  vow 

To  be  her  slave,  and  serve  her  with  my  soul. 

I  in  my  hand  will  take  my  heart,  and  burn 

Sweet  perfumes  on  it  to  relieve  her  pain. 

I,  I  have  ruined  her  —  O  God,  save  thou  ! 

[He  bends  his  head  upon  his  knees.    LiLY  comes  running  up 
to  him,  stumbling  over  the  graves. 

Lily.   Why  do  they  make  so  many  hillocks,  father? 
The  flowers  would  grow  without  them. 


igo  WITHIN  AND    WITHOUT.  Part   IV. 

yulian.  So  ihey  would. 

Lily.   What  are  they  for,  then  ? 

Julian  {aside).  I   wish    I  had  not 

brought  her  ; 
She  will  ask  questions.     I  must  tell  her  all. 
{Aloud.)    'Tis  where   they  lay  them  when  the   story's 
done. 
Lily.   What !    lay  the  boys  and  girls  ? 
Julian.  Yes,  my  own  child  — 

To  keep  them  warm  till  it  begin  again. 
Lily.    Is  it  dark  down  there  ? 

[Clmgmg  to  Julian,  a7td pomting  doum. 
Julian.    Yes,    it   is    dark  ;    but    pleasant  —  O,    so 
sweet ! 
For  out  of  there  come  all  the  pretty  flowers. 

Lily.    Did  the   church  grow  out  of  there,  with  the 
long  stalk 
That  tries  to  touch  the  little  frightened  clouds  ? 

Julian.     It  did,  my  darling.     There's  a  door  down 
there 
That  leads  away  to  where  the  church  is  pointing. 

{She  is  silent  for  sojne  time,  and  keeps  looking  first  dozen  and 
then  up.     Julian  carries  her  away  ijt  his  ar?ns. 


Scene  XX.        WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  191 

Scene  XX.  — PortsmotUh.      Lord  Seaford,  paj'tially  recoz'ered. 
Enter  Lady  Gertrude  and  Bernard. 

Lady  Gertrude.    I  have  found  an  old  friend,  father. 

Here  he  is. 
Lord  S.  Bernard  !     Who  would  have  thought  to  see 

you  here  ! 
BerJi.    I  came  on  Lady  Gertrude  in  the  street. 
I  know  not  which  of  us  was  more  surprised. 

[Lady  Gertrude  ^^^'j. 
Bern.  Where  is  the  countess  .? 

Lord  S.  Countess  !    What  do 

you  mean  ? 
I  do  not  know. 

Bern.  The  Italian  lady. 

Lord  S.  Countess 

Lamballa,  do  you  mean  .?     You  frighten  me  I 

Bern,    I  am  glad  indeed  to  know  your  ignorance  ; 
For  since  I  saw  the  count,  I  would  not  have  you 
Wrong  one  gray  hair  upon  his  noble  head. 

[Lord  Seaford  covers  his  eyes  with  his  hands. 

You  have  not  then  heard  the  news  about  yourself? 
Such  interesting  morsels  reach  the  last 


192  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

A  man's  own  ear.     The  public  has  decreed 
You  and  the  countess  run  away  together. 
'Tis  certain  she  has  balked  the  London  Argos, 
And  that  she  has  been  often  to  your  house. 
The  count  believes  it  —  clearly  from  his  face  : 
The  man  is  dying  slowly  on  his  feet. 

Lord  S.  {starting  up  and  ringing  the  bell).    O  God  ! 
what  am  I  ?     My  love  burns  like  hate, 
Scorching  and  blasting  with  a  fiery  breath  ! 

Bern.    What  the  deuce  ails  you,  Seaford  1     Are  you 
raving  t 

Enter  Waiter. 

Lord  S.    Post-chaise   for  London  —  four   horses  — 

instantly.  \^He  sinks  exhausted  in  his  chair. 

Scene  XXI.  —  Lily  in  bed.     Julian  seated  by  her. 
Lily.  O  father,  take  me  on  your  knee,  and  nurse  me. 

Another  story  is  very  nearly  done. 

\He  takes  her  on  his  knees. 
I  am  so  tired !     Think  I  should  like  to  go 
Down  to  the  warm  place  that  the  flowers  come  from, 
Where  all  the  little  boys  and  girls  are  lying 
In  little  beds  —  white  curtains,  and  white  tassels. 


Scene  XXI.       WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  I93 

No,  no,  no  —  it  is  so  dark  down  there  ! 
Father  will  not  come  near  me  all  the  night. 

Julian.  You  shall  not  go,  my  darling  \  I  will  keep 

you. 
Lily.  O  will  you  keep  me  always,  father  dear  ? 
And  though  I  sleep  ever  so  sound,  still  keep  me  ? 
I  should  be  so  happy,  never  to  move  ! 
'Tis  such  a  dear  well  place,  here  in  your  arms ! 
Don't  let  it  take  me  ;  do  not  let  me  go  : 
I  cannot  leave  you,  father  —  love  hurts  so. 

Julian.  Yes,   darling ;    love  does  hurt.      It  is  too 
good 
Never  to  hurt.     Shall  I  walk  with  you  now, 
And  try  to  make  you  sleep  ? 

Lily.  Yes  —  no  ;  for  I  should  leave  you  then.     O, 
my  head  ! 
Mother,  mother,  dear  mother  !     Sing  to  me,  father. 

\He  tries  to  sing. 

O  the  hurt,  the  hurt,  and  the  hurt  of  love  ! 
Wherever  the  sun  shines,  the  waters  go. 
It  hurts  the  snowdrop,  it  hurts  the  dove, 
God  on  his  throne,  and  man  below. 

But  sun  would  not  shine,  nor  waters  go, 
Snowdrop  tremble,  nor  fair  dove  moan, 
13 


:94  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

God  be  on  high,  nor  man  below, 

But  for  love  —  for  the  love  with  its  hurt  alone. 


Thou  knowest,  O  Saviour,  its  hurt  and  its  sorrow.s, 
Didst  rescue  its  joy  by  the  might  of  thy  pain  : 
Lord  of  all  yesterdays,  days,  and  to-morrows, 
Help  us  love  on  in  the  hope  of  thy  gain  : 

Hurt  as  it  may,  love  on,  love  forever  ; 
Love  for  love's  sake,  like  the  Father  above, 
But  for  whose  brave-hearted  Son  we  had  never 
Known  the  sweet  hurt  of  the  sorrowful  love. 

[She  sleeps  at  last.  He  sits  as  before,  with  the  child  halting 
on  his  bosom,  and  falls  into  a  kind  of  stupor,  in 
which  he  talks. 

jfulian.   A  voice  comes  from   the  vacant,  wide   sea- 
vault  : 
Ma7i  with  the  hea?'t,  praying  for  woman's  love., 
Receive  thy  prayer :  be  loved;  and  take  thy  choice  : 
Take  this  or  this.     O  Heaven  and  Earth  !  I  see  — 
What  is  it  ?     Statue  trembling  into  life 
With  the  first  rosy  flush  upon  the  skin  ? 
Or  woman-angel,  richer  by  lack  of  wings  ? 
I  see  her  —  \vhere  I  know  not ;  for  I  see 
Nought  else  :  she  filleth  space,  and  eyes,  and  brain  — 
God  keep  me  !  — in  celestial  nakedness. 


Scene  XXI.     WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  I95 

She  leaneth  forward,  looking  down  in  space, 
Witli  large  eyes  full  of  longing,  made  intense 
By  mingled  fear  of  something  yet  unknown  ; 
Her  arms  thrown  forward,  circling  half;  her  hands 
Half  lifted,  and  half  circling,  like  her  arms. 

0  heavenly  artist !  whither  hast  thou  gone 
To  find  my  own  ideal  womanhood  — 
Glory  grown  grace,  divine  to  human  grown  ! 

I  hear  the  voice  again  :  Speak  hut  the  word : 
She  70 ill  array  herself  and  come  to  thee. 
Lo,  at  her  white  foot  lie  her  solar  clothes  ^ 
Her  earthly  dress  for  work  and  weary  rest. 

1  see  a  woman-form,  laid  as  in  sleep. 
Close  by  the  white  foot  of  the  wonderful. 
It  is  the  same  shape,  line  for  line,  as  she. 
Green  grass  and  daisies  shadow  round  her  limbs. 
Why  speak  I  not  the  word  ?    Clothe  thee,  and  come, 

0  infinite  woman  !  my  life  faints  for  thee. 

Once  more  the  voice  :  Stay  !  look  on  this  side  first. 

1  spake  of  choice.     Look  here,  O  son  of  man  I 

Choose  then  between  them.     Ah  !   ah  !  {Silence. 

Her  I  knew 
Some  ages  gone  ;  the  woman  who  did  sail 


196  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  TV. 

Down  a  long  river  with  me  to  the  sea ; 

Who  gave  her  lips  up  freely  to  my  lips, 

Her  body  willingly  into  my  arms  ; 

Came  down  from  off  her  statue-pedestal, 

And  was  a  woman  in  a  common  house. 

Not  beautified  by  fancy  every  day. 

And  losing  worship  by  her  gifts  to  me. 

She  gave  me  that  white  child  —  what  came  of  her  ? 

I  have  forgot.     I  opened  her  great  heart. 

And  filled  it  half-way  to  the  brim  with  love  — 

With  love  half  wine,  half  vinegar  and  gall  — 

And  so  —  and  so  —  she  —  went  away  and  died  ? 

0  God  !  what  was  it  ?  —  something  terrible  — 

1  will  not  stay  to  choose,  nor  look  again 
Upon  the  beautiful.     Give  me  my  wife. 
The  woman  of  the  old  time  on  the  earth. 
O  lovely  spirit,  fold  not  thy  parted  hands. 
Nor  let  thy  hair  weep  like  a  sunset-rain 

From  thy  bent  brows,  shadowing  thy  snowy  breasts ! 
If  thou  descend  to  earth,  and  find  no  man 
To  love  thee  purel}^,  strongly,  in  his  will^ 
Even  as  he  loves  the  truth,  because  he  will, 
And  when  he  cannot  see  it  beautiful  — 


Scene  XXI.       WITHIN   AND  WITHOUT.  I97 

Then  thou  mayst  weep,  and  I  will  help  thee  weep. 
Voice,  speak  again,  and  tell  my  wife  to  come. 

'Tis  she,  'tis  she,  low-kneeling  at  my  feet ! 
In  the  same  dress,  same  flowing  of  the  hair. 
As  long  ago,  on  earth  :  is  her  face  changed  ? 
Sweet,  my  love  rains  on  thee,  like  a  warm  shower ; 
My  dove  descending  rests  upon  thy  head  ; 
I  bless  and  sanctify  thee  for  my  own  : 
Lift  up  thy  face,  and  let  me  look  on  thee. 

Heavens,  what  a  face  !     'Tis  hers  !     It  is  not  hers  ! 
She  rises  —  turns  it  up  from  me  to  God, 
With  great  rapt  orbs,  and  such  a  brow  !  —  the  stars 
Might  find  new  orbits  there,  and  be  content. 
O  blessed  lips,  so  sweetly  closed  that  sure 
Their  opening  must  be  prophecy  or  song  ; 
A  high-entranced  maiden,  ever  pure. 
And    thronged   with   burning   thoughts   of  God   and 

Truth  ! 
Vanish  her  garments  ;  vanishes  the  silk 
That  the  worm  spun,  the  linen  of  the  flax  — 
O  heavens  !  she  standeth  there,  my  statue-form, 
With  the  rich  golden  torrent-hair,  white  feet, 
And  hands  with  rosy  palms  — my  own  ideal ! 


198  WITHIN    AND    WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

The  woman  of  my  world,  with  deeper  eyes 
Than  I  had  power  to  think  —  and  yet  my  Lilia, 
My  wife,  with  homely  airs  of  earth  about  her  ; 
And  dearer  to  my  heart  as  my  lost  wife, 
Than  to  my  soul  as  its  new-found  ideal  ! 
O,  Lilia  !  teach  me  ;  at  thy  knees  I  kneel ; 
Make  me  thy  scholar  ;  speak,  and  I  will  hear. 

Yea,  all  eternity  —  [i%  is  roused  by  a  ay  from  the  child. 

Lily.  O,  father  !    put  your  arms  close  round  about 
me. 
Kiss  me.     Kiss  me  harder,  father  dear. 
Now !  I  am  better  now. 

\She  looks  long  and  passionately  in  his  face.     Her  eyes  close  ; 
her  head  drops  backward.     She  is  dead. 

Scene    XXII. — A  cotlagc-room.     I.U.IK  folding  a  letter. 
Lilia.  Now  I  have  told  him  all ;  no  word  kept  back 
To  burn  within  me  like  an  evil  fire. 
And  where  I  am,  I  have  told  him ;  and  I  wait 
To  know  his  will.     What  though  he  love  me  not, 
If  I  love  him  !     I  will  go  back  to  him, 
And  wait  on  him  submissive.     'Tis  enough 
For  one  life,  to  be  servant  to  that  man  ! 
It  was  but  pride  —  at  best,  love  stained  with  pride, 


Scene  XXIII.    WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  199 

That  drove  me  from  him.     He  and  my  sweet  child 
Must  miss  my  hands,  if  not  my  eyes  and  heart. 
How  lonely  is  my  Lily  all  the  day, 
Till  he  comes  home  and  makes  her  paradise  ! 

I  go  to  be  his  servant.     Every  word 
That  comes  from  him  softer  than  a  command, 
I'll  count  it  gain,  and  lay  it  in  my  heart. 
And  serve  him  better  for  it.     He  will  receive  me. 

Scene  XXIII.  —  Lily  lying  dead.     Julian  bending  over  her. 
yulian.    The  light  of  setting  suns  be  on  thee,  child  ! 
Nay,  nay,  my  child  !  the  light  of  rising  suns 
Is  on  thee.     Joy  is  with  thee  —  God  is  Joy  \ 
Peace  to  Himself,  and  unto  us  deep  joy  ; 
Joy  to  Himself,  in  the  reflex  of  our  joy. 
Love  be  with  thee  !  yea  God,  for  He  is  Love. 
Thou  wilt  need  love,  even  God's,  to  give  thee  joy. 
Children,  they  say,  are  born  into  a  world 
Where  grief  is  their  first  portion  :  thou,  I  think. 
Never  hadst  much  grief —  thy  second  birth 
Into  the  spirit-world  has  taught  thee  grief. 
If,  orphaned  now,  thou  know'st  thy  mother's  story, 
And  know'st  thy  father's  hardness.     O  my  God, 
Let  not  my  Lily  turn  away  from  me. 


200  WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

Now  I  am  free  to  follow  and  find  her. 
Thy  truer  Father  took  thee  home  to  Him, 
That  He  might  grant  my  prayer,  and  save  my  wife. 
I  thank  Him  for  his  gift  of  thee  ;  for  all 
That  thou  hast  taught  me,  blessed  little  child. 
I  love  thee,  dear,  with  an  eternal  love. 
And  now  farewell !  [kissing  her. 

No,  not  farewell  ;  I  come. 
Years  keep  not  back,  they  lead  me  on  to  thee. 
Yes,  they  will  also  lead  me  on  to  her. 

Enter  a  Jew. 
yew.    What  is  your  pleasure  with  me  ?     Here  I  am, 

sir. 
Julian.    Walk   into  the   next   room  ;  then   look  at 
this, 
And  tell  me  what  you'll  give  for  everything.     []^\v  goes. 
My  darling's  death  has  made  me  almost  happy. 
Now,  now  I  follow,  follow.     I'm  young  again. 
When  I  have  laid  my  little  one  to  rest. 
Among  the  flowers  in  that  same  sunny  spot, 
Straight  from  her  grave  I'll  take  my  pilgrim-way  ; 
And,  calling  up  all  old  forgotten  skill, 


Scene  XXIII.    WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  20I 

Lapsed  social  claims,  and  knowledge  of  mankind, 

I'll  be  a  man  once  more  in  the  loud  world 

Revived  experience  in  its  winding  ways, 

Senses  and  wits  made  sharp  by  sleepless  love. 

If  all  the  world  were  sworn  to  secrecy, 

Will  guide  me  to  her,  sure  as  questing  Death. 

I'll  follow  my  wife,  follow  until  I  die. 

How  shall  I  face  the  Shepherd  of  the  sheep. 

Without  the  one  ewe-lamb  He  gave  to  me  ? 

How  find  her  in  great  Hades  if  not  Here, 

In  this  poor  little  round  O  of  a  world  ? 

I'll  follow  my  wife,  follow  until  I  tind. 

Reenter  Jew. 
Well,  how  much  ?     Name  your  sum.     Be  liberal. 
y^e7v.    Let  me  see  this  room,  too.     The  things  are 
all 
Old-fashioned  and  ill-kept.     They're  worth  but  little. 
jfulian.    Say  what  you  will  —  only  make  haste  and 

go- 
Jew.    Say  twenty  pounds. 

jfulian.  Well,  fetch  the  money  at  once, 

And  take  possession.     But  make  haste,  I  pray. 


202  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

Scene   XXIV.  —  The  country  cimrch-yard.     Julian  standing  by 
Lily's  new-filled  grave.     He  looks  very  worn  and  ill. 

jfulian.  Now  I  can  leave  thee  safely  to  thy  sleep  ; 

Thou  wilt  not  wake  and  miss  me,  my  fair  child  ! 

Nor  will  they,  for  she's  fair,  steal  this  ewe-lamb, 

Out  of  this  fold,  while  I  am  gone  to  seek 

And  find  the  wandering  mother  of  my  lamb. 

I  cannot  weep  ;  I  know  thee  with  me  still. 

Thou  dost  not  find  it  very  dark  down  there  ? 

Would  I  could  go  to  thee  ;  I  long  to  go  ; 

My  limbs  are  tired  ;  my  eyes  are  sleepy,  too  ; 

And  fain  my  heart  would  cease  this  beat,  beat,  beat. 

0  gladly  would  I  come  to  thee,  my  child, 
And  lay  my  head  upon  thy  little  heart, 
And  sleep  in  the  divine  munificence 

Of  thy  great  love  !     But  my  night  has  not  come  : 
She  is  not  rescued  yet ;  and  I  must  go. 

\He  turns,  but  sinks  on  the  grave.     Recovering  and  rising. 

Now  for  the  world  —  that's  Italy  and  her. 

Scene   XXV.  —  The  empty   room,  formerly    Lilia's.     Entet 
Julian. 

yulian.  How  am  I  here  ?     Alas !     I  do  not  know. 

1  should  have  been  at  sea.     Ah  !    now  I  know  1 


Scene  XXV.     WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  203 

I  have  come  here  to  die.  \_Lies  down  on  the  floor. 

Where's  Lilia  ? 
I  cannot  find  her.     She  is  here,  I  know. 
But  O  these  endless  passages  and  stairs, 
And  dreadfiil  shafts  of  darkness  !     LiHa ! 
Lilia  !  wait  for  me,  child  ;  I'm  coming  fast, 
But  something  holds  me.     Let  me  go,  devil  1 
My  Lilia,  have  faith ;  they  cannot  hurt  you. 
You  are  God's  child  — they  dare  not  touch  you,  wife. 

0  pardon  me,  my  beautiful,  my  own  !  \Smgs, 

Wind,  wind,  thou  blowest  many  a  drifting  thing 
From  sheltering  cove,  down  to  the  unsheltered  sea ; 
Thou  blowest  to  the  sea  my  blue  sail's  wing  — 
Us  to  a  new,  love-lit  futurity  : 

Out  to  the  ocean  fleet  and  float  — 

Blow,  blow  my  little  leaf-like  boat. 

\While  he  sings,  ente7-   LoRD   Seaford,  pale  and  haggard. 
Julian  descries  him  suddenly. 

What  are  you,  man  ?     O  brother,  bury  me  — 
There's  money  in  my  pocket  — 

\Emptyi71g  the  yezd's  gold  on  the  floor. 

by  my  child. 

\Staring  at  him^ 
O  !  you  are  Death.     Go,  saddle  the  pale  horse  — 

1  will  not  walk  —  I'll  ride.     What,  skeleton  ! 


204  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

I  cannot  sit  him  !  ha  !  ha  !     Hither,  brute  ! 
Here,  Lilia,  do  the  lady's  task,  my  child_, 
And  buckle  on  my  spurs.     I'll  send  him  up 
With  a  gleam  through  the  blue,  snorting  white  foam- 
flakes. 
Ah  me  !  I  have  not  won  my  golden  spurs, 
Nor  is  there  any  maid  to  bind  them  on  : 
I  will  not  ride  the  horse,  I'll  walk  with  thee. 
Come,  Death,  give  me  thine  arm,  poor  slave  !  —  we'll  go. 
Lord  Seaford  {stooping  over  hini).     I  am  Seaford, 

Count. 
jfulian.   Seaford  !     What  Seaford  ?  {Recollecting. 

Seaford  !  \Sprmging  to  his  feet. 

Where  is  my  wife  ? 
[He  falls  into  Seaford's  arms.     He  lays  him  down. 

Lord  S.  Had  I  seen  hi7n,  she  had  been  safe  for  me. 

{Goes. 

[Julian  lies  motionless.  Insensibility  passes  into  sleep. 
He  wakes  calm,  in  the  sultry  dusk  of  a  summer 
eve)iing. 

jFulian.  Still,  still  alive  !     I  thought  that  I  was  dead. 
I  had  a  frightful  dream  !     'Tis  gone,  thank  God  ! 

\He  is  quiet  a  little 

So  then  thou  didst  not  take  the  child  away 


Scene  XXV.      WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  205 

That  I  might  find  my  wife  !     Thy  will  be  done. 

Thou  wilt  not  let  me  go.     This  last  desire 

I  send  away  with  grief,  but- willingly. 

I  have  prayed  to  thee,  and  thou  hast  heard  my  prayer ; 

Take  thou  thine  own  way,  only  lead  her  home. 

Cleanse  her,  O  Lord.     I  cannot  know  thy  might ; 

But  thou  art  mighty,  with  a  power  unlike 

All,  all  that  we  know  by  the  name  of  power, 

Transcending  it  as  intellect  transcends 

The  stone  upon  the  ground  —  it  may  be  more  ; 

For  these  are  both  created  —  thou  creator. 

Lonely,  supreme. 

Now  it  is  almost  over. 
My  spirit's  journey  through  this  strange  sad  world  ; 
This  part  is  done,  whatever  cometh  next. 
Morning  and  evening  have  made  out  their  day ; 
My  sun  is  going  down  in  stormy  dark, 
But  I  will  face  it  fearless. 

The  first  act 
Is  over  of  the  drama.     Is  it  so  ? 
What  means  the  dim  dawn  of  half-memories 
Of  something  I  knew  once  and  know  not  now  — 
Of  something  differing  from  all  this  earth  ? 


206  WITHIN  AND    WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

I  cannot  tell ;  I  care  not  —  only  know 
That  God  will  keep  the  living  thing  He  made. 
How  mighty  must  He  be  to  have  the  right 
Of  swaying  this  great  power  I  feel  I  am, 
Moulding  and  forming  it,  as  pleaseth  Him  ! 
O  God,  I  come  to  thee,  thou  art  my  life  ; 

0  God,  thou  art  my  home,  I  come  to  thee. 
Can  this  be  death  ?     Lo  !  I  am  lifted  up 

Large-eyed  into  the  night.     Nothing  I  see 

But  that  which  is,  the  living  awful  Truth  ; 

All  forms  of  which  are  but  the  sparks  flung  out 

From  the  luminous  ocean  clothing  round  the  sun, 

Himself  all  dark.     Ah  !  I  remember  me  : 

Christ  said  to  Martha  —  "Whosoever  liveth, 

And  doth  believe  in  me,  shall  never  die." 

1  wait,  I  wait,  expecting,  till  the  door 
Of  God's  wide  theatre  be  open  flung 

To  let  me  in.     What  wonders  I  shall  see  ! 
The  expectation  fills  me,  like  new  life 
Dancing  through  all  my  veins. 

Once  more  I  thank  thee 
For  all  that  thou  hast  made  me  —  most  of  all, 
That  thou  didst  make  Tie  wonder  and  seek  thee. 


Scene  XXV.      WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  20/ 

I  thank  thee,  for  my  wife :  to  thee  I  trust  her  ; 

Forget  her  not,  my  God.     If  thou  save  her, 

I  shall  be  able  then  to  thank  thee  so 

As  will  content  thee  —  with  full-flowing  song, 

The  very  bubbles  on  whose  dancing  waves 

Are  daring  thoughts  flung  faithful  at  thy  feet. 

My  heart  sinks  in  me  —  I  grow  faint.     O!  whence 

This  wind  of  love  that  fans  me  out  of  life  ? 

One  stoops  to  kiss  me —  ah,  my  lily  child  ! 

God  hath  not  flung  thee  over  his  garden  wall. 

[Reaiier  Lord  Seaford  with  the  doctor.     Julian  takes  no 
heed  of  them.      The  doctor  shakes  his  head. 

My  little  child,  I'll  never  leave  thee  more  ; 

We  are  both  children  now  in  God's  big  house. 

Come,  lead  me  ;  you  are  older  here  than  I 

By  three  whole  days,  my  darling  angel-child  ! 

\A  letter  is  brought  in.     Lord  Seaford   holds  it  bef>re 
Julian's  eyes.    He  looks  vaguely  at  it. 

Lord  S.  It  is  a  letter  from  your  wife,  I  think. 

jfulia?!  {feebly).    A  letter  from  my  Lilia  !     Bury  it 
with  me  — • 
I'll  read  it  in  my  chamber,  by  and  by : 
Dear  words  should  not  be  read  with  others  nigh. 
Lilia,  my  wife  !  I  am  going  home  to  God. 


2o8  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  IV. 

Lord  S.  {bending  over  him).    I'll  pledge  my  soul  your 
wife  is  innocent. 

[Julian  gazes  at  hijti  blankly.  A  light  begins  to  grow  in  his 
eyes.  It  grows  till  his  face  is  transfigured.  It  vanishes. 
He  dies. 


END    OF   PART    IV. 


WITHIN   AND    WITHOUT. 

PART  V. 

And  do  not  fear  to  hope.     Can  poet's  brain 

More  than  the  father's  heart  rich  good  invent  ? 

Each  time  we  smell  the  autumn's  dying  scent, 

We  know  the  primrose  time  will  come  again  ; 

Not  more  we  hope,  nor  less  would  soothe  our  pain. 

Be  bounteous  in  thy  faith,  for  not  misspent 

Is  confidence  unto  the  Father  lent : 

Thy  need  is  sown  and  rooted  for  his  rain. 

His  thoughts  are  as  thine  own  :  nor  are  his  ways 

Other  than  thine,  but  by  their  loftier  sense 

Of  beauty  infinite  and  love  intense. 

Work  on.     One  day,  beyond  all  thoughts  of  praise, 

A  sunny  joy  will  crown  thee  with  its  rays  ; 

Nor  other  than  thy  need,  thy  recompense. 


14 


PART   V. 

A   DREAM. 
Scene  I.  —  "  ^  zuorldnot  realized^''    Lily.     To  her,  Julian. 
Lily.    (^   FATHER,    come    with    me  !      I    have 


o 


found  her  —  mother. 


Scene  II.  — A  room  iti  a  cottage.  LiLlA  on  her  knees  before  a  crtc- 
cifix.  Her  back  only  is  seen,  for  the  Poet  dares  not  look  on 
her  face.  On  a  chair  beside  her  lies  a  book,  open  at  CHAP- 
TER VIII.  Behind  her  stands  an  Angel,  bending  forward, 
as  if  to  protect  her  with  his  wings  partly  expanded.  Appear 
Julian,  with  Lily  in  his  arms.  Lily  looks  with  love  on  the 
angel,  and  a  kind  of  longing  fear  on  her  mother. 

yulian.  Angel,  thy  part  is  done  ;  leave  her  to  me. 

Angel.  Sorrowful  man,  to  thee  I  must  give  place ; 
Thy  ministry  is  stronger  far  than  mine  ; 
Yet  have  I  done  my  part.     She  sat  with  him. 
He  gave  her  rich  white  flowers  with  crimson  scent, 
The  tuberose  and  datura  ever  burning 
Their  incense  to  the  du-sky  face  of  night. 
He  spoke  to  her  pure  words  of  lofty  sense, 


212  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  V. 

But  tinged  with  poison  for  a  tranced  ear. 

He  bade  low  music  sound  of  faint  farewells, 

Wliich  fixed  her  eyes  upon  a  leafy  picture, 

Wherein  she  wandered  through  an  amber  twilight 

Towards  a  slill  grave  in  a  sleepy  nook. 

And  ever  and  anon  she  sipped  pale  wine, 

Rose-tinged,  rose-odored,  from  a  silver  cup. 

He  sang  a  song,  each  pause  of  which  closed  up, 

Like  a  day-wearied  daisy  for  the  night, 

With  these  words  falling  like  an  echo  low : 

"  Love,  let  us  love  and  weep  and  faint  and  die," 

With  the  last  pause  the  tears  flowed  at  their  will, 

Without  a  sob,  down  from  their  cloudy  skies. 

He  took  her  hand  in  his,  and  it  lay  still. 

A  blast  of  music  from  a  wandering  band 

Billowed  the  air  with  sudden  storm  that  moment. 

The  visible  rampart  of  material  things 

Was  rent  —  the  vast  eternal  void  looked  in 

Upon  her  awe-struck  soul.     She  cried  and  fled. 

It  was  the  sealing  of  her  destiny. 

A  wild  convulsion  shook  her  inner  world  ; 

Its  lowest  depths  were  heaved  tumultuously ; 

Far  unknown  molten  gulfs  of  being  rushed 


Scene  II.  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  213 

Up  into  mountain-peaks,  rushed  and  remained. 

The  soul  that  led  a  fairy  life,  athirst 

For  beauty  only,  passed  into  a  woman's : 

In  pain  and  tears  was  born  the  child-like  need 

For  God,  for  Truth,  and  for  essential  Love. 

But  first  she  woke  in  terror ;  was  alone, 

For  God  she  saw  not ;  woke  up  in  the  night. 

The  great  wide  night.     No  mother's  hand  had  she 

To  soothe  her  pangs,  no  father's  voice  to  cheer. 

She  would  not  come  to  thee  :  for  love  itself 

Too  keenly  stung  her  sad,  repentant  heart, 

Giving  her  bitter  names  to  name  herself; 

But  calling  back  old  words  which  thou  hadst  spoken 

In  other  days,  by  light  winds  borne  "away, 

Returning  in  the  storm  of  wretchedness. 

Hither  she  came  to  seek  her  Julian's  God. 

So  now  farewell !     My  care  of  her  is  over. 

jfulia?!.  A  heart  that  knows  what  ihou  canst   never 
know, 
Fair  angel,  blesseth  thee,  and  saith,  farewell. 

\_The  a7tgel  goes.     Julian  and  Lily  hike  his  place.     Lilia 
is  praying,  and  they  hear  pa7-ts  of  her  prayer. 

Lilia.  O  Jesus,  hear  me  !     Let  me  speak  to  thee. 


214  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  Part  V. 

No  fear  oppresses  me  ;  for  misery 
Fills  my  heart  up  too  full  for  any  fear. 

Is  there  no  help,  O  Holy  ?     Am  I  stained 
Beyond  release  ? 

yulian.  Liiia,  thy  purity 

Maketh  thy  heart  abuse  thee.     I,  thy  husband, 
Sinned  more  against  thee,  in  believing  ill, 
Than  thou,  by  ten  times  what  thou  didst,  poor  child, 
Hadst  wronged  thy  husband. 

Lilia.  Pardon  will  not  do  ; 

I  need  much  more,  O  Master.     That  word  go 
Surely  thou  didst  not  speak  to  send  away 
The  sinful  wife  thou  wouldst  not  yet  condemn  ! 
Or  was  that  crime,  though  not  too  great  for  pardon, 
Too  great  for  loving-kindness  afterwards  ? 
Certain,  she  came  again  behind  thy  feet, 
And  weeping,  wiped,  and  kissed  them,  Mary's  son  ! 
Blessed  forever  with  a  heavenly  grief. 
Ah  !  she  nor  I  can  claim  with  her  who  gave 
The  best  she  had,  her  tears,  her  hair,  her  lips. 
To  soothe  feet  hard  with  Galilean  roads  : 
She  sinned  against  herself,  not  against  —  Julian. 

O  God,  O  God,  find  some  excuse  for  me. 


Scene  II.  WITHIN  AND   WITHOUT.  21$ 

Wilt  thou  not  find  something  to  say  for  me, 
As  for  the  crowd  that  cried  against  thee,  then, 
When   heaven    was    dark,    because    thy  lamp   burned 
low  ? 

yulian.  Not  thou,  but  I  am  guilty,  Lilia. 
I  made  it  possible  to  tempt  thee,  child. 
Thou  didst  not  fall,  beloved  ;  only,  one  moment 
Beauty  was  queen,  and  Truth  not  lord  of  all. 

Lilia.  O  Julian,  my  husband  — it  is  strange  — 
But  when  I  think  of  Him,  He  looks  like  thee  ; 
And  when  He  speaks  to  comfort  me,  the  voice 
Is  like  thy  voice,  my  husband,  my  beloved  ! 

0  !  if  I  could  but  lie  down  at  thy  feet. 
And  tell  thee  all,  yes,  every  word,  I  know 

That    thou   wouldst    think   the    best   that    could   be 

thought. 
And  love  and  comfort  me.     O  Julian, 

1  am  more  thine  than  ever.     Forgive  me,  husband, 
For  calling  me,  defiled  and  outcast,  thine. 

Yet  may  I  not  be  thine  as  I  am  His  ? 
Would  I  might  be  thy  servant  —  yes,  thy  slave, 
To  wash  thy  feet,  and  dress  thy  lovely  child. 
And  bring  her  at  thy  call  —  more  wife  than  I. 


2l6  WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  Part  V. 

But  I  shall  never  see  thee,  till  the  earth 
Lies  on  us  both  —  apart  —  O,  far  apart ! 
How  lonely  shall  I  lie  the  long,  long  years  ! 

Lily.  O    mother,    there    are    blue    skies    here,    and 
flowers, 
And  blowing  winds,  and  kisses,  mother  dear. 
And  every  time  my  father  kisses  me, 
It  is  not  father  only,  but  Another. 
Make  haste  and  come.     My  head  never  aches  here. 

Lilia.  Can  it  be  that  they  are  dead  ?    Is  it  possible? 
I  feel  as  if  they  were  near  me  !     Speak  again, 
Beloved  voices !  comfort  me  ;  I  need  it. 

yulian  {smging). 

Come  to  us  ;  above  the  storm 

Ever  shines  the  blue. 
Come  to  us  :  beyond  its  form 

Ever  lies  the  True. 

Lily  {singing). 

Mother,  darling,  do  not  weep  - 

All  I  cannot  tell  : 
By  and  by,  you'll  go  to  sleep, 

And  you'll  wake  so  well. 

yulian  {singing). 

There  is  sunshine  everywhere 
For  thy  heart  and  mine  : 


Scene  III.  'WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  21 7 

God,  for  every  sin  and  care, 
Is  the  cure  divine. 

Lily  {singmg). 

We're  so  happy  all  the  day, 

Waiting  for  another  : 
All  the  flowers  and  sunshine  stay, 

Waiting  for  you,  mother. 

Julian.  My  maiden  !  for  true  wife  is  maiden  ever 
To  the  true  husband  :  thou  art  mine  forever. 

Lilia.  What  gentle  hopes  are  passing  to  and  fro ! 
Thou  shadowest  me  with  thine  own  rest,  my  God  ; 
A  cloud  from  thee  stoops  down  and  covers  me. 

[She  falls  asleep  on  her  knees. 

Scene  III. — Julian  on  the  summit  of  a  mountain-peak.  The 
stars  are  brilliant  around  a  crescent  moon,  hanging-  half-way 
betweeti  the  mountain  and  the  sky.  Belozu  lies  a  sea  of  vapor. 
Beyond  rises  a  loftier  pinnacle,  across  which  is  stretched  a  bar 
of  cloud.  Lily  lies  on  the  cloud,  looking  earnestly  into  the 
mist  below. 

yulian  {gazing  upwards).   And  thou  wert  with  me 
all  the  time,  my  God, 
Even  as  now  !     1  was  not  far  from  thee. 
Thy  spirit  spoke  in  all  my  wants  and  fears, 
And  hopes  and  longings.     Thou  art  all  in  all. 
I  am  not  mine^  but  thine.     I  cannot  speak 
The  thoughts  that  work  within  me  like  a  sea. 


2l8  WITHIN    AND    WITHOUT.  Part  V. 

When  on  the  earth  I  lay,  crushed  down  beneath 

The  hopeless  weight  of  empty  desolation, 

Thy  sympathizing  face  was  lighted  then 

With  expectation  of  my  joy  to  come, 

When  all  the  realm  of  possible  ill  should  lie 

Under  my  feet,  and  I  should  stand  as  now 

All-sure  of  thee,  true-hearted,  only  One. 

Was  ever  heart  filled  to  such  overflowing 

With  the  pure  wine  of  blessedness,  my  God  ? 

Filled  as  the  night  with  stars,  am  I  with  joys ; 

Filled  as  the  heavens  with  thee,  am  I  with  peace ; 

For  now  I  wait  the  end  of  all  my  prayers, 

Of  all  that  have  to  do  with  old-world  things  : 

What  new  things  come  to  wake  new  prayers,  my  God, 

Thou  knowest,  and  I  wait  in  perfect  peace. 

\He  turns  his  gaze  downwards.  From  the  fog-sea  belo7v  half 
rises  a  woman  form,  zvhich  floats  towards  him. 

Lo,  as  the  lily  lifts  its  shining  bosom 

Above  the  couch  of  waters  where  it  slept,  * 

When  the  bright  morn  toucheth  and  waketh  it ; 

So  riseth  up  my  lily  from  the  deep 

Where  human  souls  are  tried  in  awful  dreams. 

[Lily  spies  her  mother,  darts  down  into  the  fog,  and  is 
caught  in  her  ar?ns.  They  land  on  Julian'S  peak, 
and  climb,  LiLY  leading  her  mother. 


Scene  III.         WITHIN   AND   WITHOUT.  219 

Lily.    Come  faster,  mother  dear  ;  father  is  waiting. 
Lilia.    Have  patience  with  me,  darling.     By  and  by, 
I  think  I  shall  do  better.     O  my  Julian ! 

jfiilia?!.    I  may  not  help  her.     She  must  climb  and 
come. 

\He  reaches  his  hand,  and  the  three  are  clasped  in  infinite 
embrace. 

O  God,  thy  thoughts,  thy  ways,  are  not  as  ours  : 

They  fill  our  longing  hearts  up  to  the  brim. 

[  The  moon  attd  the  stars  a7td  the  blue   flight  close   around 
them  ;  ajid  the  Poet  awakes  from  his  dream. 


THE    END. 


A    HIDDEN    LIFE. 


CONTENTS. 

— • — 

PAGE 

A  HIDDEN  LIFE i 

POEMS:  — 

A  Story  of  the  Sea-shore 6i 

To  Lady  Noel  Byron 86 

To  the  Same     ........  86 

To  Aurelio  Saffi 87 

The  Disciple 89 

THE  GOSPEL  WOMEN  :  — 

1.   The  Mother  Mary 139 

II.    The  Woman  that  lifted  up  her  Voice         .       149 

III.  The  Mother  of  Zebedee's  Children         .        .151 

IV.  The  Syro-Phcenician  Woman  ....      153 
V.  The  Widow  of  Nain 155 

VI.   The  Woman  whom  Satan  had  Bound  .        .  158 
VII.   The  Woman  who  came  behind  Him  in  the 

Crowd 160 

VIII.   The  Widow  with  the  Two  Mites  .        .        .  161 

XI.    The  Women  who  ministered  unto  Him   .        .  163 

X.    Pilate's  Wife 163 

XI.   The  Woman  of  Samaria 165 

XII.    Mary  Magdalene 166 

XIII.  The  Woman  in  the  Temple         .        .        .        .169 


VI  CONTENTS. 

THE  GOSPEL  WOUY.-N  :  —  contimied.  pagb 

XIV.   Martha '172 

XV.   Mary 174 

XVI.   The  Woman  that  was  a  Sinner     .       .        .      178 

A  BOOK  OF  SONNETS  :  — 

The  Burnt  Offering 185 

The  Unseen  Face 186 

Concerning  Jesus 187 

A  Memorial  of  Africa   , 201 

A.  M.  D •  203 

To  Garibaldi 204 

To  S.  F.  S 205 

ORGAN  SONGS:  — 

To  A.  J.  Scott 209 

Light 211 

To  A.  J.  Scott 225 

I  would  I  WERE  a  Child 227 

A  Prayer  for  the  Past 230 

Longing 238 

I  KNOW  what  Beauty  is 241 

Sympathy 243 

The  Thank-offering 245 

Prayer 247 

Rest 248 

O  DO  not  leave  Me 252 

Blessed  are  the  Meek,  for  they  shall  inherit 

the  Earth 253 

Hymn  for  a  Sick  Girl 255 

A  Christmas  Carol  for  1862        ....      257 


CONTENTS.  vii 

ORGAN  SONGS:  — ^^/////m-d'.  pagb 

A  Christmas  Carol 260 

The  Sleepless  Jesus *      262 

The  Children's  Heaven 264 

Rejoice 267 

The  Grace  of  Grace 269 

Antiphony 270 

Dorcas 273 

Marriage  Song 275 

Blind  Bartim^us 277 

Come  unto  Me 279 

Morning  Hymn 281 

Noontide 283 

Evening  Hymn 284 

The  Holy  Midnight       * 2S5 


TO 

MY    FATHER. 
I. 

Take  of  the  first  fruits,  Father,  of  thy  care. 
Wrapped  in  the  fresh  leaves  of  my  gratitude, 
Late  waked  for  early  gifts  ill  understood  ; 

Claiming  in  all  my  harvests  rightful  share. 

Whether  with  song  that  mounts  the  joyful  air 
I  praise  my  God,  or,  in  yet  deeper  mood, 
Sit  dumb  because  I  know  a  speechless  good, 

Needing  no  voice,  but  all  the  soul  for  prayer. 
Thou  hast  been  faithful  to  my  highest  need  ; 

And  I,  thy  debtor,  ever,  evermore. 

Shall  never  feel  the  grateful  burden  sore. 
Yet  most  I  thank  thee,  not  for  any  deed. 
But  for  the  sense  thy  living  self  did  breed 

That  fatherhood  is  at  the  great  world's  core. 


All  childhood,  reverence  clothed  thee,  undefined, 
As  for  some  being  of  another  race  ; 


TO   MY   FATHER. 

Ah  !  not  with  it,  departing  —  grown  apace, 
As  years  have  brought  me  manhood's  loftier  mind 
Able  to  see  thy  human  life  behind  — 

The  same  hid  heart,  the  same  revealing  face  — 
My  own  dim  contest  settling  into  grace 
Of  sorrow,  strife,  and  victory  combined. 

So  I  beheld  my  God,  in  childhood's  morn, 
A  mist,  a  darkness,  great,  and  far  apart. 
Moveless  and  dim  —  I  scarce  could  say  Thoii  art . 
My  manhood  came,  of  joy  and  sadness  born  — 
Full  soon  the  misty  dark,  asunder  torn. 
Revealed  man's  glory,  God's  great  human  heart. 

G.  M.  D.  Jr. 

Algiers,  Apr//,  I857. 


A    HIDDEN    LIFE. 


T)ROUDLY     the    youth,    sudden    with    manhood 

crowned, 
Went  walking  by  his  horses,  the  first  time 
That  morning,  to  the  plough.     No  soldier  gay 
Feels  at  his  side  the  throb  of  the  gold  hilt 
(Knowing  the  blue  blade  hides  within  its  sheath, 
As  lightning  in  the  cloud)  with  more  delight. 
When  first  he  belts  it  on,  than   he  that  day 
Heard  still  the  clank  of  the  plough-chains  against 
The  horses'  harnessed  sides,  as  to  the  field 
They  went  to  make  it  fruitful.     O'er  the  hill 
The  sun  looked  down,  baptizing  him  for  toil. 

A  farmer's  son,  a  farmer's  grandson   he  ; 
Yea,  his   great-grandsire   had   possessed  those  fields. 
Tradition  said  they  had  been  tilled   by  men 
Who  bore  the  name  long  centuries  ago. 
And  married  wives,  and  reared  a  stalwart   race, 


6  A   HIDDEN   LIFE. 

And    died,  and  went  where   all   had   followed   them, 
Save  one  old  man,  his  daughter,  and  the  youth 
Who  ploughs  in  pride,  nor  ever  doubts  his  toil  ; 
And  death  is  far  from  him  this  sunny  morn. 
Why  should  we  think  of  death  when  life  is  high  ? 
The  earth    laughs  all    the  day,  and  sleeps  all    night. 
The  daylight's  labor  and  the  night's  repose 
Are  very  good,  each  better  in  its  time. 

The  boy  knew  little  ;  but  he  read  old  tales 
Of  Scotland's  warriors,  till  his  blood  ran  swift 
As  charging   knights  upon  their  death  career. 
He  chanted  ancient  tunes,  till  the  wild  blood 
Was  charmed  back  into  its  fountain-well. 
And  tears  arose  instead.     That  poet's  songs. 
Whose  music  evermore  recalls  his    name, 
His  name  of  waters  babbling  as   they  run, 
Rose  from  him  in  tlie  fields  among  the  kine, 
And  met  the  skylark's,  raining  from  the  clouds. 
But  only  as  the  birds  he  sang  as  yet, 
From  rooted  impulse  of  essential  song  ; 
The  earth  was  fair — he  knew  not  it  was  fair; 
His  heart  was  glad  —  he  knew  not  it  was  glad  : 
He  walked  as  in  a  twilight  of  the  sense. 
Which  this  one  dav  shall  turn  to  tender  lis:ht. 


A   HIDDEN   LIFE.  7 

Long  ere  the  sun  had  cleared  the  feathery  tops 
Of  the  fir-thicket  on  the   eastward  hill, 
His  horses  leaned  and  labored.     Each  great  hand 
Held  rein  and  plough-stilt  in  one  guiding  grasp  — 
No  ploughman  there  would  brook  a  helper.      Proud 
With  a  true  ploughman's  pride  —  nobler,  I  think, 
Than  statesman's,  ay,  or  poet's,  painters   pride, 
For  little  praise  will  come  that  he  ploughs  well : 
He  did  plough  well,  proud  of  his  work  itself. 
And  not  of  what  would  follow.     With  sure   eye, 
He  saw  his  horses  keep  the  arrow-track  ; 
He  saw  the  swift  share  cut  the  measured  sod  ; 
He  saw  the  furrow  folding  to  the  right. 
Ready  with  nimble  foot  to  aid  at  need  : 
Turning  its  secrets  upward  to  the    sun, 
And  hiding  in  the  dark  the  sun -born  grass, 
And  daisies  dipped  in  carmine,  lay  the  tilth  — 
A  million  graves  to  nurse  the  buried  grain, 
And  send  a  golden  harvest  up  the  air. 

When  the  steep  sun  had  clomb  to  his  decline. 
And  pausing  seemed,  at  edge  of  slow  descent. 
Upon  the  key-stone  of  his  airy  bridge, 
They  rested  likewise,  half-tired  man  and  horse, 


8  A    HIDDEN   LIFE. 

And  homeward  went  for  food  and  courage  new. 

Therewith  refreshed,  they  turned  again  to  toil, 

And  Hved  in  labor  all  the  afternoon ; 

Till,  in  the  gloaming,  once  again  the  plough 

Lay  like  a  stranded  bark  upon  the  lea, 

And  home  with  hanging  neck  the  horses  went, 

Walking  beside  their  master,  force   by  will. 

Then  through  the  lengthening  shadows  came  a  show. 

It  was  a  lady  mounted  on  a  horse, 
A  slender  girl  upon  a  mighty  steed. 
That  bore  her  with  the  pride  horses  must  feel 
When  they  submit  to  women.     Home  she  went, 
Alone,  or  else  her  groom  lagged  far  behind. 
Scarce  had  she  bent  simple  acknowledgment 
Of  the  hand  in  silent  salutation  lifted 
To  the  bowed  head,  when  something  faithless  yielded, 
The  saddle  slipped,  the  horse  stopped,  and  the  girl 
Stood  on  her  feet,  still  holding  fast  the  reins. 

Three  paces  bore  him    bounding  to  her  side  ; 
Her  radiant  beauty  almost  fixed  him  there  ; 
But  with  main  force,  as  one  that  grapples  fear, 
He  threw  the  fascination  off,  and  saw 
The  work  before  him.     Soon  his  hand  and  knife 


A    HIDDEN    LIFE. 

Had  set  the  saddle  firmer  than  before 
Upon  the  gentle  horse  ;  and  then  he  turned 
To  mount  the  maiden.     But  bewilderment 
A  moment  lasted  ;  for  he  knew  not  how, 
With  stirrup-hand  and  steady  arm,  to  throne, 
Elastic,  on  her  steed,  the  ascending  maid  : 
A  moment  only ;  for  while  yet  she  thanked, 
Nor  yet  had  time  to  teach  her  further  will, 
About  her  waist  he  put  his  brawny  hands. 
That  all  but  zoned  her  round  ;  and  like  a  child 
Lifting  her  high,  he  set  her  on  the  horse  ; 
Whence  like  a  risen  moon  she  smiled  on  him. 
Nor  turned  aside,  although  a  radiant  blush 
Shone  in  her  cheek,  and  shadowed  in  her  eyes. 
But  he  was  never  sure  if  from    her  heart 
Or  from  the  rosy  sunset  came  the  flush. 
Again  she  thanked  him,  while  again  he  stood 
Bewildered  in  her  beauty.     Not  a  word 
Answered  her  words  that  flowed,  folded  in  tones 
Round  which  dissolving  lambent  music  played, 
Like  dropping  water  in  a  silver  cup  ; 
Till,  round  the  shoulder  of  the  neighboring  hill, 
Sudden  she  disappeared.     And  he  awoke, 


lO  A   HIDDEN   LIFE. 

And  called  himself  hard  names,  and  turned  and  went 
After  his  horses,  bending  too  his  head. 

Ah  God  !  when  Beauty  passes  from  the  door, 
Although  she  came  not  in,  the  house  is  bai'e  : 
Shut,  shut  the  door ;  there  's  nothing  in  the  house. 
Why  seems  it  always  that  she  should  be  ours  ? 
A  secret  lies  behind  which  thou  dost  know. 
And  I  can  partly  guess. 

But  think  not  then, 
The  holder  of  the  plough  sighed  many  sighs 
Upon  his  bed  that  night ;  or   other  dreams 
Than  pleasant  rose  upon  his  view  in  sleep ; 
Nor  think  the  airy  castles  of  his  brain 
Had  less  foundation  than  the  air  admits. 
But  read  my  simple  tale,  scarce  worth  the  name  ; 
And  answer,  if  he  had  not  from  the    fair 
Beauty's  best  gift ;  and  proved  her  not,  in  sooth, 
An  angel  vision  from  a  higher  world. 

Not  much  of  her  I  tell.     Her  glittering  life, 
Where  part  the  waters  on  the  mountain-ridge. 
Ran  down  the  southern  side,   apart  from  his^ 
Yet  was  not  over-blessed ;  for,  I  know, 
Her  tale  wiled  many  sighs,  one  summer  eve, 


A    HIDDEN   LIFE. 

From  him  who  in  the  m3^steries  of  a  wood 

Walking,  received  it  from  beloved  lips. 

But  now  she  was  as  God  had  made  her,  ere 

The  world  had  tried  to  spoil  her  ;    tried,  I  say, 

And  half-succeeded,  failing  utterly. 

Fair  was  she,  frank,  and  innocent  as  a  child 

That  stares  in  every  eye ;  fearless  of  ill, 

Because  she  knew  it  not ;  and  brave  withal, 

Because  she  led  a  simple  country  life. 

Much  in  the  open  air.     Her  father's  house  — 

A  Scottish  laird  was  he,   of  ancient  name  — 

Was  but  two  miles  away  among  the  hills  ; 

Yet  often  as  she  passed  his  father's  farm. 

The  youth  had  never  seen  her  face  before, 

And  should  not  twice.     Yet  was  it  not  enough  ? 

The  vision  tarried.     She,  as  the  harvest-moon 

That  goeth  on  her  way,  and  knoweth  not 

The  fields  of  corn  whose  ripening  grain  she  fills 

With  strength  of  life,  and  hope,  and  joy  for  men, 

Went  on  her  way,  and  knew  not  of  the  virtue 

Gone  out  of  her  ;  yea,  never  thought  of  him. 

Save  at  such  times  as,  all  at  once,  old  scenes 

Return  uncalled,  with  wonder  that  they  come. 


12  A   HIDDEN   LIFE. 

Soon  was  she  orphaned  of  her  parent-haunts, 
And  rounded  with  dead  glitter,  not  the  shine 
Of  leaves  and  waters  dancing  in  the  sun ; 
But  he  abode  in  ever-breaking  dawns. 
Breathed  ever  new-born  winds  into  his  soul  ; 
And  saw  the  aurora  of  a  greater  dawn 
Climbing  the  hill-sides  of  the  heapy  world. 

Again  I  say,  no  fond  romance  of  love. 
No  argument  of  possibilities, 
If  he  were  some  one,  and   she  sought  his  help, 
Turned  his  clear  brain  into  a  nest  of  dreams. 
As  soon  he  had  sat  down  and  twisted  cords 
To  snare,  and  carry  home  for  daylight  aid, 
Some  woman-angel,  wandering  half  seen 
On  moonlight  wings,  o'er  withered  autumn  fields. 
But  when  he  rose  next  morn,  and  went  abroad 
(The  exultation  of  his  new-found  rank 
Already  settling  into  dignity). 
He  found  the  earth  was  beautiful.     The  sky 
Shone  with  the  expectation  of  the  sun. 
He  grieved  him  for  the  daisies,  for  they  fell 
Caught  in  the  furrow,  with  their  innocent    heads 
Just  out  imploring.     A  gray  hedgehog  ran 


A    HIDDEN   LIFE.  1 3 

With  tangled  mesh  of  bristling  spikes,  and  face 
Helplessly  innocent,  across  the  field : 
He  let  it  run,  and  blessed  it  as  it  ran. 
Returned  at  noon-tide,  something  drew  his  feet 
Into  the  barn  :  entering,  he  gazed  and  stood. 
For,  through  the  rent  roof  lighting,  one  sunbeam 
Blazed  on  the  yellow  straw  one  golden  spot, 
Dulled  all  the  amber  heap,  and  sinking  far, 
Like  flame  inverted,  through  the  loose-piled   mound. 
Crossed  the  keen  splendor  with  dark  shadow  straws. 
In  lines  innumerable.     'Twas  so  bright, 
His  eye  was  cheated  with  a  spectral  smoke 
That  rose  as  from  a  fire.     He  had  not  known 
How  beautiful  the  sunlight,  was,  not  even 
Upon  the  windy  fields  of  morning  grass, 
Nor  on  the  river,  nor  the  ripening  corn. 
As  if  to  catch  a  wild  live  thing,  he  crept 
On  tiptoe  silent,  laid  him  on  the  heap. 
And  gazing  down  into  the  glory  gulf. 
Dreamed  as  a  boy  half  sleeping  by  the  fire  ; 
And  dreaming  rose,  and  got  his  horses  out. 
God,  and  not  woman,  is  the  heart  of  all. 
But  she,  as  priestess  of  the  visible  earth. 


14  A   HIDDEN.  LIFE. 

Holding  the  key,  herself  most  beautiful, 
Had  come  to  him,  and  flung  the  portals  wide. 
He  entered  in:  each  beauty  was  a  glass 
That  gleamed  the  woman  back  upon  his  view. 
Shall  I  not  rather  say:  each  beauty  gave 
Its  own  soul  up  to  him  who  worshipped  her, 
For  that  his  eyes  were  opened  thus  to  see  ? 
Already  in  these  hours  his  quickened  soul 
Put  forth  the  white  tip  of  a  floral  bud, 
Ere  long  to  be  a  crown-like,  aureole  flower. 
His  songs  unbidden,  his  joy  in  ancient   tales, 
Had  hitherto  alone  betrayed  the  seed 
That  lay  in  his  heart,  close  hidden  even  from  him. 
Yet  not  the  less  mellowing  all  his  spring: 
Like  summer  sunshine  came  the   maiden's  face, 
And  in  the  youth's  glad  heart  the  seed  awoke. 
It  grew  and  spread,  and  put  forth  many  flowers, 
And  every  flower  a  living  open  eye, 
Until  his  soul  was  full  of  eyes  within. 
Each  morning  now  was  a  fresh  boon  to  him  ; 
Each  wind  a  spiritual  power  upon  his  life  ; 
Each  individual  animal  did  share 
A  common  being  with  him  ;  every  kind 


A   HIDDEN   LIFE.  1 5 

Of  flower  from  every  other  was  distinct, 
Uttering  that  for  which  alone  it  was  — 
Its  something  human,  wrapt  in  other  veil. 

And  when  the  winter  came,  when  thick    the  snow 
Armed  the  sad  fields  from  gnawing  of  the  frost, 
When  the  low  sun  but  skirted  his  far  realms, 
And  sank  in  early  night,  he  drew  his  chair 
Beside  the  fire;  and  by  the  feeble  lamp 
Read  book  on  book  ;  and  wandered  other  climes, 
And  lived  in  other  lives  and  other  needs, 
And  grew  a  larger  self  by  other  selves. 
Ere  long,  the  love  of  knowledge  had  become 
A  hungry  passion  and  a  conscious  power. 
And  craved  for  more  than  reading  could  supply. 
Then,  through  the  night  (all  dark,  except  the    moon 
Shone  frosty  o'er  the  heath,  or  the  white  snow 
Gave  back  such  motes  of  light  as  else  had  sunk 
In  the  dark  earth)  he  bent  his  plodding  way 
Over  the  moors  to  where  the  little    town 
Lay  gathered  in  the  hollow.     There  the  student 
Who  taught  from  lingering  dawn  to    early  dark, 
Had  older  scholars  in  the  long  fore-night ; 
For  youths  who  in  the  shop,  or  in  the  barn, 


l6  A    HIDDEN   LIFE. 

Or  at  the  loom,  had  done  their  needful  work, 
Came  gathering  through  starlight,  fog,  or  snow, 
And  found  the  fire  ablaze,  the  candles  lit. 
And  him  who  knew  waiting  for  who  would  know. 
Here  mathematics  wiled  him  to  their  heights  ; 
And  strange  consent  of  lines  to  form  and  law 
Made  Euclid  a  profound  romance  of  truth. 
The  master  saw  with  wonder  that  the  youth 
So  eagerly  devoured  the  offered  food. 
And  longed  to  lead  him  further;  for  fair  knowledge 
Would  multiply  like  life  ;  and  two  clear  souls 
That  see  one  truth,  and,  turning,  also  see 
Each  other's  face  glow  in  that  truth's  delight. 
Are  something  more  than  lovers.     So  he  offered 
To  guide  him  through  the  narrow  ways  that  lead 
To  lofty  heights  of  Roman  speech.     The  youth 
Caught  at  the  offer;  and  for  many  a  night. 
When  others  slept,  he  groped  his  twilight  way 
With  lexicon  and  rule,  through  ancient  story. 
Or  fable  fine,  embalmed  in  Latin  old  ; 
Wherein  his  knowledge  of  the  English  tongue 
(Through  reading  many  books)  much  aided  him,  — 
For  the  best  is  alike  in  every  tongue. 


A   HIDDEN   LIFE.  \J 

At  length  his  progress,  through  the  master's  word, 
Proud  of  such  pupil,  reached  the  father's  ears. 
Great  gladness  woke  within  him,  and  he  vowed, 
If  caring,  sparing  might  accomplish  it, 
He  should  to  college,  and  should  have  his  fill 
Of  that  same  learning. 

To  the  plough  no  more, 
All  day  to  school  he  went ;  and  ere  a  year, 
He  wore  the   scarlet  gown  with   the  closed   sleeves. 

Awkward  at  first,  but  with  a  dignity 
Soon  finding  fit  embodiment  in  speech 
And  gesture  and  address,  he  made  his  way, 
Not  seeking  such,  to  the  full-orbed  respect 
Of  students  and  professors ;   for  whose  praise 
More  than  his  worth,  society,  so  called, 
To  its  rooms  in  that  great  city  of  the  North, 
Invited  him.     He  entered.     Dazzled  at  first 
By  brilliance  of  the  outer  show,  the   lights. 
The  mirrors,  gems,  white  necks,  and  radiant  eyes. 
He  stole    into  a  corner,  and  was  quiet 
Until  the  vision  too  had  quieter  grown. 
Bewildered  next  by  many  a  sparkling  word. 
Nor  knowing  the  light-play  of  polished  minds, 


l8  A   HIDDEN   LIFE. 

Which,  like  rose-diamonds  cut  in  many  facets, 

Catch  and  reflect  the  wandering  rays  of  truth 

As  if  they  were  home-born  and  issuing  new, 

He  held  his  peace,  and,  silent  soon  began 

To  see  how  little  fire  it  needs  to  shine. 

Hence,    in    the   midst   of    talk,    his    thoughts    would 

wander 
Back  to  the  calm  divine  of  homely  toil  j 
And  round  him  still  and  ever  hung   an  air 
Of  breezy  fields,  and  plough,  and  cart,  and  scythe  — 
A  kind  of  clumsy  grace,  in  which  gay  girls 
Saw  but  the  clumsiness  —  another   sort 
Saw  the   grace  too,  yea,  sometimes,  when    he  spoke, 
Saw  the  grace  only  ;  and  began  at  last, 
For  he  sought  none,  to  seek  him  in  the  crowd, 
And  find  him  unexpected,  maiden-wise. 

But  oftener  far  they  sought   than  found   him  thus, 
For  seldom  was  he  drawn  away  from  toil. 
Seldomer  yet  he  stinted  toil's  due  time  ; 
For  if  one  eve  his  panes  were  dark,  the  next 
They  gleamed  far  into  morning.     And  he  won 
Honors  among   the  first,  each  session's  close. 

Nor  think  that  new  familiarity 


A   HIDDEN   LIFE.  I9 

With  open  forms  of  ill,  not  to  be  shunned 

Where  many  youths  are  met,  endangered   much 

A  mind  that  had  begun  to  will  the  pure. 

Oft  when  the  broad  rich  humor  of  a  jest 

With  breezy  force  drew  in  its  skirts  a  troop 

Of  pestilential  vapors  following  — 

Arose  within  his  sudden  silent  mind, 

The   maiden  face    that  once   blushed   down  on   him. 

That  lady  face,  insphered  beyond  his  earth. 

Yet  visible  as  bright,  particular  star. 

A  flush  of  tenderness  then  glowed  across 

His  bosom  —  shone  it  clean  from  passing  harm. 

Should  that  sweet  face  be  banished  by  rude  words  ? 

It  could  not  stay  what  maidens  might  not  hear. 

He  almost  wept  for  shame,  that  face,  that  jest 

Should  meet  in  his  house :  to  his  love  he  made 

Love's  only  worthy  offering  —  purity. 

And  if  the  homage  that  he  sometimes  met, 
New  to  the    country  lad,  conveyed  in   smiles, 
Assents,  and  silent  listenings  when  he  spoke. 
Threatened  yet  more  his  life's  simplicity  ; 
An  antidote  of  nature  ever  came, 
Even  Nature's  self     For,  in  the  summer  months. 


20  A    HIDDEN   LIFE. 

His  former  haunts  and  boyhood's  circumstance 

Received  him  to  the  bosom  of  their  grace. 

And  he,  too  noble  to  despise  the  past. 

Too  proud  to  be  ashamed  of  manly  toil, 

Too  wise  to  fancy  that  a  gulf  lay  wide 

Betwixt  the  laboring  hand  and  thinking  brain, 

Or  that  a  workman  was  no   gentleman 

Because  a  workman,  clothed  himself  again 

In  his  old  garments,  took  the  hoe,  the  spade, 

The  sowing  sheet,  or  covered   in  the  grain, 

Smoothing  with  harrows  what  the  plough  had  ridged. 

With  ever  fresher  joy  he  hailed  the  fields, 

Returning  still  v/ith  larger  powers  of  sight : 

Each  time  he  knew  them  better  than  before, 

And  yet  their  sweetest  aspect  was  the  old. 

His  labor  kept  him  true  to  life  and  fact, 

Casting  out  worldly  judgments,  false  desires, 

And  vain  distinctions.     Ever,  at  his  toil. 

New  thoughts  arose ;  which,  when  still  night  awoke, 

He  ever  sought,  like  stars,  with    instruments  ; 

By  science,  or  by  wise  philosophy. 

Bridging  the  gulf  betwixt  the  new  and  old. 

Thus  labored  he  with  hand  and  brain  at  once. 


A    HIDDEN   LIFE.  21 

Preparing  for  the  time  when  Scotland's  sons 
Reap  wisdom  in  the  silence  of  the  year. 

His  sire  was  proud  of  him  ;  and,  most  of  all, 
Because  his  learning  did  not  make  him  proud. 
A  wise  man  builds  not  much  upon  his  lore. 
The  neighbors  asked  what  he  would  make  his  son. 
"  I'll  make  a  man  of  him,"  the  old  man  said  ; 
"  And  for  the  rest,  just  what  he  likes  himself. 
He  is  my  only  son — I  think  he'll  keep 
The  old  farm  on,  and  I  shall  go  content, 
Leaving  a  man  behind    me,  as  I  say." 

So  four  years  long  his  life  went  to  and  fro, 
Alternating  the  red  gown  and  blue  coat, 
The  garret  study  and  the  wide-floored  barn, 
The  wintry  city  and  the  sunny  fields. 
In  every  change  his  mind  was  well  content. 
For  in  himself  he  was  the  growing  same. 

Nor  in  one  channel  flowed  his  seeking  thoughts  ; 
To  no  profession  did  he  ardent  turn  : 
He  knew  his  father's  wish  —  it  was  his  own. 
"  Why  should    a    man,"  he    said,  "  when    knowledge 

grows, 
Leave  therefore  the  old  patriarchal  life, 


22  A   HIDDEN   LIFE. 

And  seek  distinction  in  tlie  noise  of  men  ? " 

He  turned  his  asking  face  on  every  side  ; 

Went  reverent  with  the  anatomist,  and  saw 

The  inner  form  of  man  laid  skillful  bare  ; 

Went  with  the  chemist,  whose  wise-questioning  hand 

Made  Nature  do  in  little,  before  his  eyes. 

And  momently,  what,  huge,  for  centuries, 

And  in  the  veil  of  vastness  and  lone  deeps, 

She  labors  at ;  bent  his  inquiring  eye 

On  every  source  whence  knowledge  flows  for  men  : 

At  some  he  only  sipped,  at  others  drank. 

At  length,  when  he  had  gained  the  master's  right  — 
A  custom  sacred  from  of  old  —  to  sit 
With  covered  head  before  the  awful  rank 
Of  black-gowned  senators ;  and  each  of  those, 
Proud  of  his  pupil,  was  ready  at  a  word 
To  speed  him  on  towards  any  further  goal ; 
He  took  his  books,  his  well-worn  cap  and  gown. 
And,  leaving  with  a  sigh  the  ancient  walls. 
The  grand  old  crown  of  stone,  unchanging  gray 
In  all  the  blandishments  of  youthful  spring, 
He  sought  for  life  the  lone  ancestral  farm. 

With  simple  gladness  met  him  on  the  road 


A   HIDDEN   LIFE.  23 

His  gray-haired  father  —  elder  brother  now. 

Few  words  were  spoken,  little  welcome  said, 

But  on  each  side  the  more  was  understood. 

If  with  a  less  delight  he  brought  him  home 

Than  he  who  met  the  prodigal  returned, 

It  was  with  more  reliance,  with  more  peace ; 

For  with  the  leaning  pride  that  old  men  feel 

In  young   strong   arms   that   draw  their   might   from 

them, 
He  led  him  to  the  house.     His  sister  there, 
Whose  kisses  were  not  many,  but  whose  eyes 
Were  full  of  watchfulness  and  hovering  love, 
Set  him  beside  the  fire  in  the  old  place. 
And  heaped  the  table  with  best  country  fare. 

When  the  swift  night  grew  deep,  the  father  rose. 
And  led  him,  wondering  why  and  where  they  went, 
Through  the  limpid  dark,  with  tortuous  path 
Between  the  corn-ricks,  to  a  loft  above 
The  stable,  where  the  same  old  horses  slept 
Which  he  had  guided  that  eventful  morn. 
Entering,  he  saw  some  plan-pursuing  hand 
Had  been  at  work.     The  father,  leading  on 
Across  the  floor,  heaped  high  with  store  of  grain, 


24  A    HIDDEN   LIFE. 

Opened  a  door.     An  unexpected  light 
Flashed  on  him  cheerful  from  a  fire  and  lamp, 
That  burned  alone,  as  in  a  fairy  tale. 
Behold  !  a  litde  room,  a  curtained  bed, 
An  easy-chair,  book-shelves,  and  writing  desk, 
An  old  print  of  a  deep  Virgilian  wood. 
And  one  of  choosing  Hercules !     The  youth 
Gazed  and  spoke  not.     The  old  paternal  love 
Had  sought  and  found  an  incarnation  new  ; 
For,  honoring  in  his  son  the  simple  needs 
Which  his  own  bounty  had  begot  in  him, 
He  gave  him  thus  a  lonely  thinking  space, 
A  silent  refuge.     With  a  quiet  good-night. 
He  left  him  dumb  with  love.     Faintly  beneath. 
The  horses  stamped  and  drew  the  lengthening  chain. 
Three  sliding  years,  with  slowly  blended  change, 
Drew  round  their  winter,  summer,  autumn,  spring, 
Fulfilled  of  work  by  hands,  and  brain,  and  heart. 
He  labored  as  before  ;  though  when  he  would. 
And  Nature  urged  not,  he,  with  privilege, 
Would  spare  from  hours  of  toil, —  read  in  his  room, 
Or  wander  through  the  moorland  to  the  hills  ; 
There  on  the  apex  of  the  world  would  stand, 


A   HIDDEN   LIFE.  2$ 

As  on  an  altar,  burning,  soul  and  heart. 

Himself  the  sacrifice  of  faith  and  prayer  j 

Gaze  in  the  face  of  the  inviting  blue 

That  domed  him  round  ;  ask  why  it  should  be  blue  ; 

Pray  yet  again ;  and  with  love-strengthened  heart 

Go  down  to  lower  things  with  lofty  cares. 

When  Sundays  came,  the  father,  daughter,  son 
Walked  to  the  church  across  their  own  loved  fields. 
It  was  an  ugly  church,  with  scarce  a  sign 
Of  what  makes  English  churches  venerable. 
Likest  a  crowing  cock  upon  a  heap 
It  stood  —  but  let  us  say  —  St.  Peter's  cock  ; 
For,  sure,  it  lacked  not  many  a  holy  charm 
To  whom  it  was  coeval  with  his  being  — 
Dawning  with  it  from  darkness  of  the  unseen. 
And  the  low  mounds  of  monumental  grass 
Were  far  more  solemn  than  great  marble  tombs ; 
For  flesh  is  grass,  its  goodliness  the  flower. 
O,  lovely  is  the  face  of  country  graves 
On  sunny  afternoons  1     The  light  itself 
Nestles  amidst  the  grass ;  and  the  sweet  wind 
Says,  /  am  here^  —  no  more.     With  sun  and  wind 
And  crowing  cocks,  who  can  believe  in  death  ? 


26  A   HIDDEN   LIFE. 

He,  on  such  days,  when  from  the  church  they  came, 
And  through  God's  ridges  took  their  thoughtful  way, 
The  last  psalm  lingering  lowly  in  their  hearts, 
Would  look,  inquiring  where  his  ridge  would  rise  ; 
But  when  it  gloomed  and  rained,  he  turned  aside  • 
What  mattered  it  to  him  ? 

And  as  they  walked 
Home  from  the  church,  the  father  loved  to  hear 
The  fresh  rills  pouring  from  his  son's  clear  well. 
For  the  old  man  clung  not  to  the  old  alone  ; 
Nor  leaned  the  3^oung  man  only  to  the  new  : 
They  would  the  best,  and  sought,  and  followed  it. 
The  pastor's  lore  was  sound,  his  teaching  poor ; 
The  Past  alone  he  cherished,  said  our  friend  ; 
Honored  those  Jewish  times  as  he  were  a  Jew, 
But  had  no  ear  for  this  poor  needy  hour. 
Which  wanders  up  and  down  the  centuries, 
Like  beggar  boy  roaming  the  wintry  streets, 
With  hand  held  out  to  any  passer  by ; 
And  yet  God  made  the  voice  of  its  many  cries. 

He  used  to  say :    "  Mine  be  the  work  that  comes 
First  ready  to  my  hand.     The  lever  set 
I  grasp  and  heave  withal.     Or  let  me  say. 


A   HIDDEN   LIFE.  2/ 

I  love  where  I  live,  and   let  my  labor  flow 
Into  the  hollows  of  the  neighbor-needs. 
Perhaps  I  like  it  best :  I  would  not  choose 
Another  than  the  ordered  circumstance. 
This  farm  is  God's  as  much  as  yonder  town  ; 
These  men  and  maidens,  kine  and   horses,  his  ; 
For  them  his  laws  must   be  incarnated 
In  act  and  fact,  and    so  their  world  redeemed." 

Though  thus  he  spoke  at  times,  he  spake  not  oft ; 
But  ruled  by  action  —  what  he  said  he  did. 
No  grief  was  suffered  there  of  man  or  beast 
More  than  was  need  ;  no  creature  fled  in  fear ; 
All  slaying  was  with  generous  suddenness, 
Like  God's  benignant  lightning.     "  For,"  he  said, 
"  God    makes    the    beasts,    and    loves   them    dearly 

well  — 
Better  than  any  parent  loves  his  child. 
It  may  be,"  would  he  say ;   for  still  the  may  be 
Was  sacred  with  him  no  less  than  the  is^  — 
In  such  humility  he  lived  and  wrought,  — 
"Hence  are  they  sacred.     Sprung  from  God    as  we, 
They  are  our  brethren  in  a  lower  kind ; 
And  in  their  face  I  see  the  human  look." 


28  A   HIDDEN   LIFE. 

If  any  said  :  "  Men  look  like  animals  ; 

Each  has  his  type  set  in  the  lower  kind  ;  " 

His  answer  was :   "  The  animals  are  like  men. 

Each  has  his  true  type  set  in  the  higher  kind, 

Though  even  there  only  rough-hewn  as  yet." 

He  said  that  cruelty  would    need  no  hell 

Save  that  the  ghosts  of  the  sad  beasts  should  come, 

And  crowding,  silent,  all  their  centred  heads. 

Stare  the  ill  man  to  madness. 

When  he  spoke. 
His  word  had  all  the  force  of  unborn  deeds 
That  lay  within   him  ready  to  be  born. 
His  goodness  ever  went  beyond  his  word. 
Embodying  itself  unconsciously 
In  understanding  of  the  need  that  prayed. 
And  help  to  which  be  had  not  pledged  himself ; 
For,  like  his  race,  the  pledge  with  him  was  slow. 
When  from  great  cities  came  the  old  sad  news 
Of  crime  and  wretchedness,   and  children  sore 
With  hunger,  and  neglect,  and  cruel  blows, 
He  would  walk  sadly  all  the  afternoon, 
With  head  down-bent,  and  pondering  footstep  slow ; 
Arriving  ever  at  the  same  result,  — 


A    HIDDEN   LIFE.  29 

Concluding  ever :  "  The  best  that  I  can  do 

For  the  great  world,  is  the  same  best  I  can 

For  this  my  world.     What  truth  may  be  therein 

AVill  pass  beyond  my  narrow  circumstance, 

In  truth's  own  right."     When  a  philanthropist 

Said  pompously :  "  It  is  not  for  your  gifts 

To  spend  themselves  on  common  labors  thus  : 

You  owe  the  world  far  nobler  things  than  such  ; " 

He  answered  him  :    "  The  world  is  in  God's  hands  ; 

This  part  in  mine.     Hither  my  sacred  past. 

With  all  its  loves  inherited,  has  led  ; 

Here  let  me  fit.     Shall  I  judge,  arrogant, 

Primeval,  godlike  work  in  earth  and  air. 

Seed-time  and  harvest  —  offered  fellowship 

With  God  in  nature  —  unworthy  of  my  hands  ? 

I  know  what    you  would  say  —  I  know  with  grief — 

The  crowds  of  men,  in  whom  a  starving  soul 

Cries  through  the  windows  of  their  hollow  eyes 

For  bare  humanity,  and  leave  to  grow :  — 

Would  I  could  help  them !     But  all  crowds  are  made 

Of  individuals  ;   and  their   grief,  and    pain. 

And  thirst,   and   hunger,    all    are  of  the  one. 

Not  of  the  many :  the  true  saving  power 


30  A   HIDDEN   LIFE. 

Enters    the  individual   door,   and   thence 

Issues    again  in  thousand   influences 

Besieging  other  doors.     You  cannot  throw 

A  mass  of  good  into  the  general  midst 

Whereof  each  m^an  can  seize  his  private  share  ; 

Or  if  you  could,  it  were   of  lowest  kind, 

Not  reaching   to  that  hunger  of  the  soul. 

Now  here  I   labor  whole   in  the  same  place 

Where  they  have  known  me   from  my  childhood  up, 

And  I  know  them,   each  individual  : 

If  there  is  power  in   me   to  help  my  own, 

Even  of  itself  it  flows  beyond  my  will, 

Takes  shape   in  commonest  of  common  acts 

Meeting  the  humble  day's  necessity: 

I  would  not  always  consciously  do  good, — 

Not  always  work  from  full  intent  of  help,  — 

Lest  I  forget  the   measure    heaped  and  pressed 

And  running  over  which  they  pour  for  me ; 

And  never  reap  the  too-much  of  return 

In  smiling  trust,   and  wealth  of  kindly  eyes. 

But  in   the  city,  with   a  few  lame  words 

And  a  few  wretched   coins,  sore-coveted. 

To  mediate  'twixt  my  cannot  and  my  would, 


A  HIDDEN   LIFE.  3 1 

My  best  attempts  could  hardly  strike  a  root ; 

My  scattered   corn  would   turn  to  wind-blown   chaff, 

And  I  grow  weak,  and  weary  of  my  kind, 

Misunderstood  the  most  where  almost  known, 

Baffled  and  beaten  by  their  unbelief: 

Years  could  not  place  me  where  I  stand  this  day,  — 

High  on  the  vantage-ground  of  confidence : 

I  might  for  years  toil  on,  and  reach  no  man. 

Besides,  to  leave  the  thing  that  nearest  lies, 

And  choose  the  thing  far  off,  more  difficult  — 

The  act,  having  no  touch  of  God  in  it, 

Who  seeks  the    needy  for  the  pure  need's  sake. 

Must  straightway  die,  choked  in  its  selfishness." 

Thus  he.     The  world-wise  schemer  for  the  good 

Held  his  poor  peace,  and  went  his  trackless  way. 

What  of  the  vision  now  ?  the  vision  fair 
Sent  forth  to  meet  him,  when  at  eve  he  went 
Home    from    his    first    day's    ploughing  ?       Oft    he 

dreamed 
She  passed  him  smiling  on  her  stately  horse  ; 
But  never  band  or  buckle  yielded  more  ; 
Never  again  his  hands  enthroned  the  maid ; 
He  only  gazed  and  worshipped  and  awoke. 


32  A   HIDDEN  LIFE. 

Nor  woke  he  then  with  foolish  vain  regret ; 
But,  saying,  "I  have  seen  the  beautiful," 
Smiled  with  his  eyes  upon  a  flower  or  bird, 
Or  any  living  form  of  gentleness 
That  met  him  first ;  and  all  that  day,  his  face 
Would  oftener  dawn  into  a  blossomy  smile. 

And  ever  when  he  read  a  lofty  tale, 
Or  when  the  storied  leaf,  or  ballad  old, 
Or  spake  or  sang  of  woman  very  fair, 
Or  wondrous  good,  he  saw  her  face  alone, 
The  genius  henceforth  of  the  tale  or  song. 

Nor  did  he  turn  aside  from  other  maids. 
But  loved  their  faces  pure  and  faithful  eyes. 
He  may  have  thought,  "  One  day  I  wed  a  maid, 
And  make  her  mine  ;  "  but  never  came  the  maid, 
Or  never  came  the  hour  :  he  walked  alone. 

Meantime  how  fared  the  lady?     She  had  wed 
One  of  the  common  crowd.     There  must  be  ore 
For  the  gold  grains  to  lie  in  :  virgin  gold 
Lies  by  the  dross,  enriching  not  the  dross. 
She  was  not  one  who  of  herself  could  be^ 
And  she  had  found  no  heart,  that,  one  with  hers. 
Would  sound  accord.     She  sat  alone  in  the  house, 


A   HIDDEN  LIFE.  33 

And  read  the  last  new  novel,  vaguely,  faintly 
Desiring  better ;  or  listlessly  conversed 
With  phantom-visitors  —  they  were  no  friends, 
But  spectral  forms  from  fashion's  hollow  glass. 
She  haunted  gay  assemblies,  ill-content ; 
But,  better  there  than  lonely  with  her  mate, 
There  danced,  or  sat  and  talked. 

What  had  she  felt, 
If  through  the  rhythmic  motion  of  fair  forms 
A  vision  had  arisen  —  as  when,  of  old. 
The  minstrel's  art  laid  bare  the  seer's  eye. 
And  showed  him  plenteous  waters  in  the  waste,  — 
If  the  gay  dance  had  vanished  from  her  eyes. 
And  she  had  seen  her  ploughman-lover  go 
With  his  great  stride  across  a  lonely  field. 
Under  the  dark  blue  vault  ablaze  with  stars, 
Lifting  his  full  eyes  to  the  radiant  roof? 
Or  in  the  emerging  vision  had  she  seen 
Him,  studious,  with  space-compelling  mind. 
Bent  o'er  his  slate,  pursue  some  planet's  course  ; 
Or  read,  and  justify  the  poet's  wrath. 
Or  sage's  slow  conclusion  ?     If  a  voice 
Had  whispered  then  :  This  man  in  many  a  dream 
3 


34  A   HIDDEN  LIFE. 

And  many  a  moment  of  keen  consciousness, 
Blesses  you  for  the  look  that  woke  his  heart, 
That  smiled  him  into  life,  and,  still  unwithered, 
Lies  cherished  in  the  cabinet  of  his  soul,  — 
Would   those    dark   eyes   have   beamed   with   darker 

light  ? 
Would  that  fair  soul,  half  dead  with  emptiness, 
Have  risen  from  the  couch  of  her  unrest. 
And  looked  to  Heaven  again,  again  believed 
In  God  and  the  realities  of  life  ? 
Would  not  that  soul  have  sung  to  her  lone  self: 
"  I  have  a  friend,  a  ploughman,  who  is  wise. 
He  knows  what  God,  and  goodness,  and  fair  faith 
Mean  in  the  words  and  books  of  mighty  men. 
He  little  heeds  the  outer  shows  of  things, 
But  worships  the  unconquerable  truth. 
This  man  of  men  loves  me  :  I  will  be  proud 
And  very  humble.     If  he  knew  me  well, 
Would  he  go  on  to  love  me  as  he  loves  ? " 

In  the  third  year,  a  heavy  harvest  fell. 
Full  filled,  before  the  reaping-hook  and  scythe. 
The  men  and  maidens  in  the  scorching  heat 
Lightened  their  toil  by  merry  jest  and  song ; 


A   HIDDEN   LIFE.  35 

Rested  at  mid-day,  and  from  brimming  bowl 

Drank  the  brown  ale,  and  white  abundant  milk ; 

Until  the  last  ear  fell,  and  stubble  stood 

Where  waved  the  forests  of  the  murmuring  corn, 

And  o'er  the  land  rose  piled  the  shocks,  like  tents 

Of  an  encamping  army,  tent  by  tent, 

To  stand  until  the  moon  should  have  her  will. 

The  grain  was  ripe.     The  harvest  carts  went  out 
Broad-platformed,  bearing  back  the  towering  load, 
With  frequent  passage  'twixt  homeyard  and  field. 
And  half  the  oats  already  hid  their  tops, 
Their  ringing,  rustling,  wind-responsive  sprays, 
In  the  still  darkness  of  the  towering  stack ; 
When  in  the  north  low  billowy  clouds  appeared, 
Blue-based,  white-crested,  in  the  afternoon  ; 
And  westward,  darker  masses,  plashed  with  blue, 
And  outlined  vague  in  misty  steep  and  dell, 
Clomb  o'er  the  hill-tops  :  thunder  was  at  hand. 
The  air  was  sultry.     But  the  upper  sky 
Was  clear  and  radiant. 

Downward  went  the  sun, 
Below  the  sullen  clouds  that  walled  the  west. 
Below  the  hills,  below  the  shadowed  world. 


36  A    HIDDEN   LIFE. 

The  moon  looked  over  the  clear  eastern  wall, 
And  slanting  rose  and  looked,  and  rose  and  looked, 
Searching  for  silence  in  her  yellow  fields. 
There  it  was  not.     For  there  the  staggering  carts. 
Like  overladen  beasts,  crawled  homeward  still. 
Returning  light  and  low.     The  laugh  broke  yet. 
That  lightning  of  the  soul's  unclouded  skies. 
Though  not  so  frequent,  now  that  labor  passed 
Its  natural  hour.     Yet  on  the  labor  went. 
Straining  to  beat  the  welkin-climbing  toil 
Of  the  huge  rain-clouds,  heavy  with  their  floods. 
Sleep,  old  enchantress,  sided  with  the  clouds. 
The  crawling  clouds,  and  threw  benumbing  spells 
On  man  and  horse.     One  youth  who  walked  beside 
A  ponderous  load  of  sheaves,  higher  than  wont. 
Which  dared  the  slumbering  leven  overhead, 
Woke  with  a  start,  falling  against  the  wheel, 
That  circled  slow  after  the  sleepy  horse. 
Yet  none  would  yield  to  soft-suggesting  sleep, 
Or  leave  the  last  few  shocks ;  for  the  wild  storm 
Would  catch  thereby  the  skirts  of  Harvest-home, 
And  hold  her  lingering  half  way  in  the  rain. 
The  scholar  labored  with  his  men  all  night. 


A    HIDDEN   LIFE.  37 

He  did  not  favor  such  prone  headlong  race 
With  Nature.     To  himself  he  said  :  "  The  night 
Is  sent  for  sleep  ;  we  ought  to  sleep  in  it, 
And  leave  the  clouds  to  God.     Not  every  storm 
That  climbeth  heavenward,  overwhelms  the  earth. 
And  if  God  wills,  'tis  better  as  He  wills  ; 
What  He  takes  from  us  never  can  be  lost." 
But  the  old  farmer  ordered ;  and  the  son 
Went  manful  to  the  work,  and  held  his  peace. 

When  the  dawn  blotted  pale  the  clouded  east, 
And  the  first  drops,  o'ergrown  and  helpless,  fell. 
Oppressed    with    sheaves,    the    last    cart   home    was 

going ; 
And  by  its  side,  the  last  in  the  retreat. 
The  scholar  walked,  glad  bringing  up  the  rear. 
Plalf  distance  only  had  he  measured  back. 
When,  on  opposing  strength  of  upper  winds 
Tumultuous  borne  at  last,  the  laboring  racks 
Met  in  the  zenith,  and  the  silence  ceased: 
The  lightning  brake,  and  flooded  all  the  world, 
Its  roar  of  airy  billows  following  it. 
The  darkness  drank  the  lightning,  and  again 
Lay  more  unslaked.     But  ere  the  darkness  came, 


38  A   HIDDEN   LIFE. 

In  the  full  revelation  of  the  flash, 

Met  by  some  stranger  flash  from  cloudy  brain,  ' 

He  saw  the  lady,  borne  upon  her  horse, 

Careless  of  thunder,  as  when,  years  agone. 

He  saw  her  once,  to  see  for  evermore. 

"  Ah  ha  ! "  he  said  ;  "  my  dreams  are  come  for  me ; 

Now  shall  they  have  their  time."     For,  all  the  night, 

He  had  felt  a  growing  trouble  in  his  frame. 

Which  might  be  nothing,  or  an  illness  dire. 

Homeward  he  went,  with  a  pale  smile  arrived. 
Gave  up  his  load,  walked  softly  to   his  room. 
And  sought  the  welcome  haven  of  his  bed  — 
There  slept  and  moaned,  cried    out,  and    woke,  and 

slept : 
Through  all  the  netted  labyrinth  of  his  brain 
The  fever  shot  its  pent  malignant  fire. 
'Twas  evening  when  to  passing  consciousness 
He  woke  and  saw  his  father  by  his  side. 
His  guardian  form  in  every  vision  drear 
That  followed,  watching  shone ;  and  the  healing  face 
Of  his  good  sister  gleamed  through  all  his  pain. 
Soothing  and  strengthening  with  cloudy  hope  ; 
Till,  at  the  weary  last  of  many  days. 


A   HIDDEN   LIFE.  39 

He  woke  to  sweet  quiescent  consciousness, 
Enfeebled  much,  but  with  a  new-born  life — • 
His  soul  a  summer  evening,  after  rain. 

Slow,  with  the  passing  weeks,  he  gathered  strength, 
And  ere  the  winter  came,  seemed  half  restored ; 
And  hope  was  busy.     But  a  fire  too  keen 
Burned  in  his  larger  eyes ;  and  in  his  cheek 
Too  ready  came  the  blood  at  faintest  call, 
Glowing  a  fair,  quick-fading,  sunset  hue. 

Before  its  hour,  a  biting  frost  set  in. 
It  gnawed  with  icy  fangs  his  shrinking  life ; 
And  that  disease  well  known  in  all  the  land, 
That  smiling,  hoping,  wasting,  radiant  death, 
Was  born  of  outer  cold  and  inner  heat. 

One  morn  his  sister,  entering  while  he  slept, 
Saw  in  his  listless  hand  a  handkerchief 
Spotted  with  red.     Cold  with  dismay,  she  stood 
Scared,  motionless.     But  catching  in  a  glass 
A  sudden  glimpse  of  a  white  ghostly  face, 
She  started  at  herself,  and  he  awoke. 
He  understood,  and  said  with  smile  unsure, 
"  Bright  red  was  evermore  my  master-hue ; 
And  see,  I  have  it  in  me :  that  is  why." 


40  A    HIDDEN   LIFE. 

She  shuddered  ;  and  he  saw,  nor  jested  more  ; 

But  from  that  hour  looked  silent  Death  in  the  face. 

When  first  he  saw  the  red  blood  outward  leap, 
As  if  it  sought  again  the  fountain-heart 
Whence  it  had  flowed  to  fill  the  golden  bowl, 
No  terror  seized  :  a  wild  excitement  swelled 
His  spirit.     Now  the  pondered  mystery 
Would  fling  its  portals  wide,  and  take  him  in, 
One  of  the  awful  dead :  them  fools  conceive 
As  ghosts  that  fleet  and  pine,  bereft  of  weight, 
And  half  their  valued  lives — he  otherwise; 
Hoped  now,  and  now  expected ;  and  again 
Said  only,  "  I  will  wait  for  what  will  come." 
So  waits  a  child  the  lingering  curtain's  rise, 
While  yet  the  panting  lights  restrained  burn 
At  half  height,  and  the  theatre  is  full. 

But  as  the  days  went  on,  they  brought  sad  hours, 
When  he  would  sit,  his  hands  upon  his  knees, 
Drooping,  and  longing  for  the  wine  of  life. 
For  when  the  ninefold  crystal  spheres,  through  which 
The  outer  light  sinks  in,  are  rent  and  shattered. 
Yet  whole  enough  to  keep  the  pining  life, 
Distressing:  shadows  cross  the  checkered  soul : 


A   HIDDEN   LIFE.  4I 

Poor  Psyche  trims  her  irresponsive  lamp, 
And  anxious  visits  oft  her  store  of  oil, 
And  still  the  shadows  fall  —  she  must  go  pray. 
For  God,  who  speaks  to  man  at  door  and  lattice, 
Glorious  in  stars,  and  winds,  and  flowers,  and  waves, 
Not  seldom  shuts  the  door  and  dims  the   pane. 
That,  isled  in  calm,  his  still  small  voice  may  sound 
The  clearer,  by  the  hearth,  in  the  inner  room  — 
Sound  on  until  the  soul,  fulfilled  of  hope, 
Look  undismayed  on  that  which  cannot  kill ; 
And  saying  in  the  gloom,  I  ivill  the  light, 
Glow  in  the  gloom  the  present  will  of  God  — 
So  melt  the  shadows  of  her  clouded  house. 

He,  when  his  lamp  shot  up  a  spiring  flame, 
Would   thus   break  forth   and   climb   the  heaven    of 

prayer : 
"  Do  with  us  what  thou  wilt,  all-glorious  heart ! 
Thou  God  of  them  that  are  not  yet,  but  grow  ! 
We  trust  thee  for  the  thing  we  shall  be  yet ; 
We  too  are  ill  content  with  what  we  are." 
And  when  the  flame  sank,  and  the  darkness  fell, 
He  lived  by  faith  which  is  the  soul  of  sight. 

Yet  in  the  frequent  pauses  of  the  light, 


42  A   HIDDEN   LIFE. 

When  all  was  dreary  as  a  drizzling  thaw, 

When  sleep  came  not  although  he  prayed  for  sleep, 

And  wakeful  weary  on  his  bed  he  lay, 

Like  frozen  lake  that  has  no  heaven  within  ; 

Then,  then  the  sleeping  horror  woke  and  stirred, 

And  with  the  tooth  of  unsure  thought  began 

To  gnaw  the  roots  of  life.     What  if  there  were 

No  truth  in  beauty  —  loveliness  a  toy 

Invented  by  himself  in  happier  mood .? 

"  For,  if  my  mind  can  dim  or  slay  the  Fair, 

Why  should  it  not  enhance  or  make  the  Fair  ? " 

"  Nay,"  Psyche  answered  ;    ''  for  a  tired  man 

May  drop  his  eyelids  on  the  visible  world. 

To  whom  no  dreams,  when  fancy  flieth  free, 

Will  bring  the  sunny  excellence  of  day. 

'Tis  easy  to  destroy ;   God  only  makes. 

Could  my  invention  sweep  the  lucid  waves 

With  purple  shadows  —  next  create  the  joy 

With  which  my  life  beholds  them  ?     Wherefore  should 

One  meet  the  other  without  thought  of  mine  ? 

If  God  did  not  mean  beauty  in  them  and  me. 

But  dropped  them,  helpless  shadows,  from  his  sun, 

There  were  no  God,  his  image  not  being  mine, 


A   HIDDEN   LIFE.  43 

And  I  should  seek  in  vain  for  any  bliss. 
O,  lack  and  doubt  and  fear  can  only  come 
Because  of  plenty,  confidence,  and  love  ! 
They  are  the  shadow-forms  about  their  feet, 
Because  they  are  not  perfect  crystal-clear 
To  the  all-searching  sun  in  which  they  live. 
Dread  of  its  loss  is  Beauty's  certain  seal !  " 
Thus  reasoned  mourning  Psyche.     And  suddenly 
The  sun  would  rise,  and  vanish  Psyche's  lamp, 
Absorbed  in  light,  not  swallowed  in  the  dark. 

It  was  a  wintry  time  with  sunny  days, 
And  visitings  of  April  airs  and  scents, 
That  came  with  sudden  presence,  unforetold, 
As  brushed  from  off  the  outer  spheres  of  spring 
In  the  great  world  where  all  is  old  and  new. 
Strange  longings  he  had  never  known  till  now, 
Awoke  within  him,  flowers  of  rooted  hope. 
For  a  whole  silent  hour  he  would  sit  and  gaze 
Upon  the  distant  hills  whose  dazzling  snow 
Starred  the  dim  blue,  or  down  their  dark  ravines 
Crept  vaporous ;   until  the  fancy  rose 
That  on  the  other  side  those  rampart  hills 
A  mighty  woman  sat,  with  waiting  face. 


44  A   HIDDEN   LIFE. 

Calm  as  the  life  whose  rapt  intensity 
Borders  on  death,  silent,  waiting  for  him, 
To  make  him  grand  forever  with  a  kiss, 
And  send  him  silent  through  the  toning  worlds. 
The  father  saw  him  waning.     The  proud  sire 
Beheld  his  pride  go  drooping  in  the  cold. 
Like  snow-drop  to  the  earth  ;   and  gave  God  thanks 
That  he  was  old.     But  evermore  the  son 
Looked  up  and  smiled  as  he  had  heard  strange  news, 
Across  the  waste,  of  tree-buds  and  primroses. 
And  yet  again  the  other  mood  would  come, 
And,  being  a  troubled  child,  he  sought  his  father 
For  cornfort  such  as  fathers  only  give :  — 
Sure  there  is  one  great  Father  in  the  heavens, 
Since  every  word  of  good  from  fathers'  lips 
Falleth  with  such  authority,  although 
They  are  but  men  as  we !     This  trembling  son 
Who  saw  the  unknown  death  draw  hourly  nigher, 
Sought  comfort  in  his  father's  tenderness. 
And  made  him  strong  to  die. 

One  shining  day, 
Shining  with  sun  and    snow,  he  came  and  said, 
**  What  think  you,  father  —  is  death  very  sore  ? " 


A   HIDDEN  LIFE.  45 

"  My  boy,"  the  father  answered,  "  we  will  try 

To  make  it  easy  with  the  present  God. 

But,  as  I  judge,  though  more  by  hope  than  sight, 

It  seems  much  harder  to  the  lookers  on, 

Than   to    the  man  who  dies.     Each   panting  breath, 

We  call  a  gasp,  may  be  to  him  who  knows, 

A  sigh  of  pleasure  ;   or,  at  worst,  the  sob 

With  which  the  unclothed  spirit,  step  by  step, 

Wades  forth  into  the  cool  eternal  sea. 

I  think,  my  boy,  death  has  two  sides  to  it, — 

One  sunny,  and  one  dark  ;  as  this  round  earth 

Is  every  day  half  sunny  and  half  dark. 

We  on  the  dark  side  call  the  mystery  death; 

They  on  the  other,  looking  down  in  light, 

Wait  the  glad  birth^  with  other  tears  than  ours." 

"  Be  near  me,  father,  when  I  die  ; "  he  said. 

''  I  will,  my  boy,  until  a  better  Father 

Draws  your  hand  out  of  mine.     Be  near  in  turn, 

When  my  time  comes  :  you  in  the  light  beyond. 

And  knowing  all  about  it ;  I  all  dark." 

The  days  went  on,  until  the  tender  green 
Shone  through  the  snow  in  patches.     Then  the  hope 
Of  life  awoke,  fair-faintly,  in  his  heart ; 


46  A   HIDDEN   LIFE. 

For  the  spring  drew  him,  warm,  soft,  budding  spring, 
With  promises.     The  father  better  knew. 

He  who  had  strode  a  king  across  his  fields, 
Crept  slowly  now  through  softest  daisied  grass ; 
And  sometimes  wept  in  secret,  that  so  soon 
The  earth  with  all  its  suns  and  harvests  fair 
Must  lie  beyond  a  sure  dividing  waste. 

But  though  I  lingering  listen  to  the  old, 
Ere  yet  I  strike  new  chords  that  seize  the  old 
And  bear  their  lost  souls  up  the  music-stair  — 
Think  not  he  was  too  fearful-faint  of  heart 
To  look  the  blank  unknown  full  in  the  void ; 
For  he  had  hope  in  God,  the  growth  of  years, 
Ponderings,  and  aspirations  from  a  child, 
And  prayers  and  readings  and  repentances  ; 
For  something  in  him  had  ever  sought  the  peace 
Of  other  something  deeper  in  him  still ; 
Some  sounds  sighed  ever  for  a  harmony 
With  other  fainter  tones,  that  softly  drew 
Nearer  and  nearer  from  the  unknown  depths 
Where  the  Individual  goeth  out  in  God, 
Smoothing   the  discord  ever  as  they  grew : 
He  sought  the  way  back  which  the  music  came, 


A    HIDDEN   LIFE.  47 

Hoping  at  last  to  find  the  face  of  Him 

To  whom  St.  John  said  Lord  with  holy  awe, 

Yet  on  his  bosom  fearless  leaned  the  while. 

As  the  slow  spring  came  on,  his  swelling  life, 
The  new  creation   inside  of  the  old, 
Pressed  up  in  buds  toward   the  invisible, 
And  burst  the  crumbling  mould  wherein  it  lay. 
He  never  thought  of  church-yards,  —  ever  looked 
Away  from  the  green  earth  to  the  blue  sky. 

Yet  of  the  earth  remained  one  hurtless  stain  — 
He  thanked  God  that  he  died   not  in  the  cold. 
"  For,"  said  he,  "  I  would  rather  go  abroad 
When  the  sun    shines,  and   birds  are  singing   blithe. 
It  may  be  that  we  know  not  any  place. 
Or  sense  at  all,  and  only  live  in  thought, 
But,  knowing  not,  I  cling  to  warmth  and   light. 
I  may  pass  forth  into  the  sea  of  air 
That  swings  its  massy  waves  around  the  earth. 
And  I  would  rather  go  when  it  is  full 
Of  light  and  blue  and  larks,  than  when  gray  fog 
Dulls  it  with  steams  of  old  earth  winter-sick. 
Now  in  the  dawn  of  summer  I  shall  die  ; 
Sinking  asleep  at  sunset,  I  will  hope, 


48  A   HIDDEN    LIFE. 

And  going  with  the  light.     And  by  the  time 
When  they  say :  '  He  is  dead  ;  his  face  is  changed  ; ' 
I  shall  be  saying :  '  Yet,  yet,  I  live,  I  love.'  " 

The  weary  nights  had  taught  him  much ;  for  all 
He  knew  before  seemed  as  he  knew  it  not, 
And  he  must  learn  it  yet  again  and  better. 
The  sick  half  dreaming  child  will  oft  forget 
In  longings  for  his  mother,  that  her  arms 
Are  all  the  time  holding  him  to  her  heart : 
Mother  he  murmuring  moans;  she  wakes  him  up, 
That  he  may  see  her  face,  and  sleep  in  peace. 
And  God  was  very  good  to  him,  he  said. 

Faint-hearted  reader,  lift  thy  heart  with  me. 

Father !  we  need  thy  winter  as  thy  spring ; 
And  thy  poor  children,  knowing  thy  great  heart, 
And  that  thou  bearest  thy  large  share  of  grief. 
Because  thou  lovest  goodness  more  than  joy 
In  them  thou  lovest  —  so  dost  let  them  grieve. 
Will  cease  to  vex  thee  with  our  peevish  cries, 
Will  Hft  our  eyes  and  smile,  though  sorrowful ; 
Yet  not  the  less  pray  for  thy  help,  when  pain 
Is  overstrong.     Remember  our  poor  hearts. 
We  never  grasp  the  zenith  of  the  time  ; 


A   HIDDEN   LIFE.  49 

We  find  no  spring  except  in  winter-prayers ; 
But  we  believe  —  nay,  Lord,  we  only  hope, 
That  one  day  we  shall  thank  thee  perfectly 
For  pain  and  hope  and  all  that  led  or  drove 
Us  back  into  the  bosom  of  thy  love. 

One  night,  as  oft,  he  lay  and  could  not  sleep. 
His  spirit  was  a  chamber,  empty,  dark, 
Through  which  bright  pictures  passed    of  the   outer 

world  ; 
The  regnant  Will  gazed  passive  on  the  show. 
The  tube,  as    it    were,  through    which   the    shadows 

came. 
Was  turned  upon  the  past.     One  after  one, 
Glided  across  the  field  the  things  that  were, 
Silent  and  sorrowful,  like  all  things  old  ; 
For  withered  rose-leaves  have  a  mournful  scent, 
And  old  brown  letters  are  more  sad  than  graves. 

At  length,  as  ever  in  such  vision-hours, 
Came  the  bright  maiden,  high  upon  her  horse. 
Then,  then  the  passive  Will  sprang  regnant  up. 
And,  like  a  necromantic  sage,  compelled 
What  came  unbidden  to  abide  his  will. 

Gathered  around  her  form  his  brooding  thoughts : 
4 


50  A    HIDDEN   LIFE. 

How  would  she  fare,  spinning  her  history 

Into  a  Psyche-cradle?     With  what  wings 

Greet  the  a^onian  summer  ?     Glistening  white, 

With  feathery  dust  of  silver?  or  dull  red, 

Seared  with  black  spots  of  scorching  sulphur- fume  ? 

"  I  know,"  he  said,  "  some  women  fail,  and  cease. 

Men  rave  of  eyes  in  which  I  could  not  rest." 

The  fount  of  possibihties  began 
To  glow  ebullient  in  the  hidden  part ; 
Anon  the  lava-stream  burst  blasting  forth. 
For  purest  souls  sometimes  have  direst  fears, 
In  ghost-hours  when  the  shadow  of  the  earth 
Is  cast  on  half  her  children,  and  the  sun 
Is  far  away  and  busy  with  the  rest. 
"  If  she  be  only  such  as  some  men  say, 
Pure  in  the  eyes  of  poet-boys,  who  still 
Fancy  the  wavings  of  invisible  wings. 
And  tremble  as  they  feel  the  wafted  air; 
But,  private  and  familiar  with  their  thoughrs. 
Common  as  clay,  and  of  the  trodden  earth  ! 
It  cannot,  cannot  be  !     She  is  of  God. 
And  yet  fair  things  will  perish  ;  higher  life 
Gives  deeper  death  ;  fair  gifts  make  fouler  faults : 


A   HIDDEN   LIFE.  5 1 

Women  themselves  —  I  dare  not  think  the  rest." 
Such  thoughts  went  walking  up  and  down  his  soul, 
Until  they  found  a  spot  wherein  to  rest, 
And  build  a  resolution  for  the  day. 

But  next  day,  and  the  next,  he  was  too  worn 
To  make  intent  a  deed.     Besides,  there  blew 
A  cold  dry  wind  from  out  the  kindless  East, 
Withering  his  life  —  as  if  he  had  come  too  soon. 
Before  God's  spirit  moved  on  the  waters'  face, 
To  make  his  dwelling  ready.     But  the  next 
Morning  rose  radiant.     A  genial  wind 
Rippled  the  blue  air  'neath  the  golden  sun. 
And  brought  glad  news  of  summer  from  the  South. 

He  lay  now  in  his  father's  room  ;  and  there 
The  growing  summer  sun  poured  a  steep  light. 
It  fell  upon  the  fire,  alive  with  flames, 
And  turned  it  ghostly  pale,  and  would  have  slain ; 
Even  as  the  sunshine  of  the  further  life. 
Quenching  the  glow  of  this,  leaves  but  a  coal. 
He  sat  him  down  'twixt  sun  and  fire,  himself 
The  meeting  point  of  two  conflicting  lives. 
And  half  from  each  forth  flowed  the  written  stream  : 

"  Lady,  I  owe  thee  much.     Stay  not  to  look 


52  A   HIDDEN   LIFE. 

Upon  my  name  :  I  write  it,  but  I  date 
From  the  church-yard,  where  it  shall  lie  in  peace 
When  thou  art  reading,  —  and  thou  knowest  me  not. 
Nor  dared  I  write,  but  death  is  crowning  me 
Thy  equal.     If  my  boldness  should  offend, 
I,  pure  in  my  intent,  hide  with  the  ghosts  : 
Where,  when  thou  com'st,  thou  hast  already  known, 
As  God  at  first.  Death  equal  makes  at  last. 

"  But  pardon,  lady.     Ere  I  had  begun, 
My  thoughts  moved  towards  thee  with  a  gentle  flow 
That  bore  a  depth  of  waters.     When  I  took 
My  pen  to  write,  they  rushed  into  a  gulf, 
Precipitate  and  foamy.     Can  it  be, 
That  death  who  humbles  all  hatli  made  me  proud  ? 

"Lady,  thy  loveliness  hath  walked  my  brain, 
As  if  I  were  thy  heritage  bequeathed 
From  many  sires  ;  yet  only  from  afar 
I  have  worshipped   thee  —  content   to   know  the  vis- 
ion 
Had  lifted  me  above  myself  who   saw, 
And  taken  my  angel   nigh  thee  in  thy  heaven. 
Thy  beauty,  lady,  hath  overflowed,  and  made 
Another  being  beautiful  beside. 


A   HIDDEN   LIFE.  53 

With  virtue  to  aspire  and  be  itself. 
Afar  as  angels  or  the  sainted  dead, 
Yet  near  as  loveliness  can  haunt  a  man, 
And  taking  any  shape  for  every  need, 
Thy  form  hath  put  on  each  revealing   dress 
Of  circumstance  and  history,  high  or  low. 
In  which  from  tale  of  holy  life  and  thought 
Essential  womanhood  hath  shone  on  me. 

"Ten  years  have  passed  away  since  the  first  time. 
Which  was  the  last,  I  saw  thee.     What  have  these 
Made  or  unmade  in  thee  ?  I  ask  myself. 

0  lovely  in  my  memory!  art  thou 

As  lovely  in  thyself?     Thy  glory  then 

Was  what  God  made  thee  :  art  thou  such  indeed  ? 

Forgive  my  boldness,  lady,  —  I  am  dead : 

The  dead  may  cry,  their  voices  are  so  small. 

"  I  have  a  prayer  to  make  thee  —  hear  the  dead. 
Lady,  for  God's  sake  be  as  beautiful 
As  that  white  form  that  dwelleth  in  my  heart; 
Yea,  better  still,  as  that  ideal  Pure 
That  waketh  in  thee,  when  thou  prayest   God, 
Or  helpest  thy  poor  neighbor.     For  myself 

1  pray.     For  if  I  die  and  find  that  she, 


54  A   HIDDEN   LIFE. 

My  woman-glory,  lives  in  common  air, 

Is  not  so  very  radiant  after  all. 

My  sad  face  will  afflict  the  calm-eyed  ghosts, 

Unused  to  see  such  rooted  sadness  there. 

With  palm  to  palm,  my  kneeling  ghost  implores 

Thee,  living  lady  —  justify  my  faith 

In  womanhood's  white-handed  nobleness, 

And  thee,  its  revelation  unto  me. 

"  But  I  bethink  me.     If  thou  turn  thy  thoughts 
Upon  thyself,  even  for  that  great  sake 
Of  purity  and  conscious  whiteness'  self. 
Thou  wilt  but  half  succeed.     The  other  half 
Is  to  forget  the  first,  and  all  thyself. 
Quenching  thy  moonlight  in  the  blaze  of  day, 
Turning  thy  being  full  unto  thy  God. 
Be  thou  in  Him  a  pure,  twice  holy  child, 
Doing  the  right  with  sweet  unconsciousness  j 
Having  God  in  thee,  thy  completed  soul. 

"  Lady,  I  die  —  the  Father  holds  me  up. 
It  is  not  much  to  thee  that  I  should  die  ; 
But  it  is  much  to  know  He  holds  me  up. 

"  I  thank  thee,  lady,  for  a  gentle  look 
Which  crowned  me  from  thine  eyes  ten  years  ago, 


A   HIDDEN   LIFE.  55 

Ere,  clothed  in  nimbus  of  the  setting  sun, 

Thee  from  my  dazzled  eyes  thy  horse  did  bear, 

Proud  of  his  burden.     My  dull  tongue  was  mute  — 

I  was  a  fool  before  thee ;  but  my  silence 

Was  the  sole  homage  possible  to  me  then : 

That  I  can  speak  nor  be  ashamed,  is  thine. 

The  same  sweet  look  be  possible  to  thee 

For  evermore :  I  bless  thee  with  thine  own, 

And  say  farewell,  and  go  into  my  grave  — 

Nay,  to  the  sapphire  heaven  of  all  my  hopes." 

Followed  his  name  in  full,  and  then  the  name 
Of  the  green  church-yard  where  his  form  would  lie. 

Back  to  his  couch  he  crept,  weaiy,  and  said : 
"  O  God !  I  am  but  an  attempt  at  life. 
Sleep  falls  again  ere  I  am  full  awake. 
Life  goeth  from  me  in  the  morning  hour. 
I  have  seen  nothing  clearly  ;  felt  no  thrill 
Of  pure  emotion,  save  in  dreams,  ah  —  dreams  ! 
The  high  Truth  has  but  flickered  in  my  soul  — 
Save  at  such  times,  in  lonely  midnight  hours, 
When,  dawning  sudden  on  my  inner  world. 
New  stars  came  forth,  revealing  unknown  depths, 
New  heights  of  silence,  quelling  all  my  sea. 


56  A   HIDDEN   LIFE. 

Then  only  I  beheld  the  formless  fact, 

Beheld  myself  a  living  lonely  thought, 

Isled  in  the  hyaline  of  Truth  alway. 

I  have  not  reaped  earth's  harvest,  O  my  God  ; 

Have  gathered  but  a  few  poor  wayside  flowers,  — 

Harebells,  red  poppies,  daisies,  eyebrights  blue,  — 

Gathered  them  by  the  way,  for  comforting. 

Have  I  aimed  proudly,  therefore  aimed  too  low. 

Striving  for  something  visible  in  my  thought. 

And  not  the  unseen  thing  hid  far  in  thine  ? 

Make  me  content  to  be  a  primrose-flower 

Among  thy  nations,  so  the  fair  truth,  hid 

In  the  sweet  primrose,  come  awake  in  me, 

And  I  rejoice,  an  individual  soul, 

Reflecting  thee  —  as  truly  then  divine 

As  if  I  towered  the  angel  of  the  sun. 

Once,  in  a  southern  eve,  a  glowing  worm 

Gave  me  a  keener  joy  than  the  heaven  of  stars : 

Thou  earnest  in  the  worm  more  near  me  then  ; 

Nor  do  I  think,  were  I  that  green  delight, 

I'd  change  to  be  the  shadowy  evening  star. 

Ah,  make  me,  Father,  anything  thou  wilt, 

So  be  thou  will  it !     I  am  safe  with  thee. 


A   HIDDEN   LIFE.  57 

I  laugh  exulting.     Make  me  something,  God  ; 

Clear,  sunny,  veritable  purity 

Of  high  existence,  in  thyself  content, 

And  seeking  for  no  measures.     I  have  reaped 

Earth's  harvest,  if  I  find  this  holy  death. 

Now  I  am  ready ;  take  me  when  thou  wilt." 

He  laid  the  letter  in  his  desk,  with  seal 
And  superscription.  When  his  sister  came. 
He  told  her  where  to  find  it  —  afterwards. 

As  the  slow  eve,  through  paler,  darker  shades, 
Insensibly  declines,  until  at  last 
The  lordly  day  is  but  a  memory, 
So  died  he.     In  the  hush  of  noon  he  died. 
The  sun  shone  on  —  why  should  he  not  shine  on  ? 
The  summer  noises  rose  o'er  all  the  land. 
The  love  of  God  lay  warm  on  hill  and  plain. 
'Tis  well  to  die  in  summer. 

When  the  breath, 
After  a  hopeless  pause,  returned  no  more, 
The  father  fell  upon  his  knees,  and  said  : 
"  O  God,  I  thank  thee  ;  it  is  over  now  ; 
Through  this  sore  time  thy  hand  has   led  him  well. 
Lord,  let  me  follow  sbon,  and  be  at  rest." 


58  A   HIDDEN   LIFE. 

And  then  he  rose,  and  comforted  the  maid, 
Who  in  her  brother  had  lost  the  pride  of  life, 
And  wept  as  all  her  heaven  were  only  rain. 

Of  the  loved  lady,  little  more  I  know. 
I  know  not  if,  when  she  had  read  the  lines, 
She  rose  in  haste,  and  to  her  chamber  went. 
And  shut  the  door  ;    nor  if,  when  she  came  forth, 
A  dawn  of  holier  purpose  gleamed  across 
The  sadness  of  her  brow.     But  this  I  know, 
That  on  a  warm  autumnal  afternoon, 
When     headstone-shadows     crossed    three     neighbor 

graves. 
And,  like  an  ended  prayer,  the  empty  church 
Stood  in  the  sunshine,  like  a  cenotaph, 
A  little  boy,  who  watched  a  cow  near  by 
Gather  her  milk  where  alms  of  clover-fields 
Lay  scattered  on  the  sides  of  silent  roads, 
All  sudden  saw  —  but  saw  not  whence   she  came  — 
A  lady,  closely  veiled,  alone,  and  still. 
Seated  upon  a  grave.     Long  time  she  sat 
And  moved  not,  weeping  sore,  the  watcher  said. 
At  length  slow-leaning  on  her  elbow  down. 
She  pulled  a  something  small  from  off  the  grave  — 


A    HIDDEN   LIFE.  59 

A  shining  daisy,  or  a  blade  of  grass, 
And  put  it  in  a  letter.     Then  she  rose. 
And  glided  silent  forth,  over   the  wall, 
Where  the  two  steps  on  this  side  and  on  that 
Shorten  the  path  from  westward  to  the  church. 
The  clang  of  hoofs  and  sound  of  light,  swift  wheels 
Arose  and  died  upon  the  listener's  ear. 


A   STORY    OF   THE    SEA-SHORE. 


A    STORY   OF   THE   SEA-SHORE. 


INTRODUCTION. 

SOUGHT  the  long  clear  twilights  of  my   home, 
Far  in  the  pale-blue  skies  and  slaty  seas, 
What  time  the  sunset  dies  not  utterly, 
But  withered  to  a  ghost-like  stealthy  gleam. 
Round  the  horizon  creeps  the  short-lived  night. 
And  changes  into  sunrise  in  a  swoon. 
I  found  my  home  in  homeliness  unchanged: 
The  love  that  made  it  home,  unchangeable. 
Received  me  as  a  child,  and  all  was  well. 
My  ancient  summer-heaven,  borne  on  the  hills. 
Once  more  embraced  me  ;    and  once  more  the  vale^ 
So  often  sighed  for  in  the  far-off  nights, 
Rose  on  my  bodily  vision,  and,  behold! 
In  nothing  had  the  fancy  mocked  the  fact : 
The  hasting  streams  went  garrulous  as  of  old  ; 


64  A    STORY   OF  THE   SEA-SHORE. 

The  resting  flowers  in  silence  uttered  more ; 
The  blue  hills  rose  and  dwelt  alone  in  heaven  ; 
Householding  Nature  from  her  treasures  brought 
Things  old  and  new,  the  same  yet  not  the  same, 
For  all  was  holier,  lovelier  than  before. 
And  best  of  all,  once  more  I  paced  the  fields 
With  him  whose  love  had  made  me  long  for  God  — 
So  good  a  father  that  needs-must  I   sought 
A  better  still,  Father  of  him  and  me. 

Once  on  a  day,  my  cousin  Frank  and  I 
Sat  swiftly  borne  behind  the  dear  white  mare 
Which  oft  had  carried  me  in  by-gone    days 
Along  the  lonely  paths  of  moorland  hills ; 
But  now  we  sought  the  coast,  where  deep  waves  foam 
'Gainst  rocks  that  lift  their  dark  fronts  to  the  north. 
Beside  me  sat  a  girl,  on  whose  kind  face 
I  had  not  looked  for  many  a  changeful  year. 
But  the  old  friendshijD  straightway  blossomed  new. 
The  heavens  were  sunny,  and  the  earth  was   green  ; 
The  harebells  large,  in  gathered  groups  along 
The  grassy  borders,  of  a  tender  blue 
Transparent  as  the  sky,  haunted  with  wings 


A   STORY   OF  THE   SEA-SHORE.  65 

Of  many  butterflies,  as  blue  as  they ; 

And  as  we  talked  and  talked  without  restraint, 

Brought  near  by  memories  of  days  that  were 

And  therefore  are  forever,  by  the  joy 

Of  motion  through  a  warm  and  shining  air, 

By  the  glad  sense  of  freedom  and  like  thoughts, 

And  by  the  bond  of  friendship  with  the  dead, 

She  told  the  tale  which  here  I  tell  again. 

I  had  returned  to  childish  memories, 
Asking  her  if  she  knew  a  castle  old, 
Whose  masonry,  all  worn  away  above, 
Yet  faced  the  sea-cliff  up,  and  met  the  waves : 
'Twas  one  of  my  child-marvels ;  for,  each  year. 
We  turned  our  backs  upon  the  ripening  corn, 
And  sought  some  village  on  the  desert  shore ; 
And  nigh  this  ruin,  was  that  I  loved  the  best. 

For  O  the  riches  of  that  little  port ! 
Down  almost  to  the  beach,  where  a  high  wall 
Inclosed  them,  came  the  gardens  of  a  lord, 
Free  to  the  visitor  with  foot  restrained  : 
His  shady  walks,  his  ancient  trees  of  state; 
5 


66  A   STORY   OF  THE    SEA-SHORE. 

His  river,  which,  outside  the  wall,  with  course 

Indefinite,  went  dreaming  o'er  the  sands, 

And  lost  itself  in  finding  out  the  sea. 

But  inside,  bore  grave  swans,  white  splendors  —  crept 

Under  the  fairy  leap  of  a  wire  bridge. 

Vanished  in  leaves,  and  came  again  where  lawns 

Lay  verdurous,  and  the  peacock's  plumy  heaven 

Bore  azure  suns  with  green  and  golden   rays. 

It  was  my  childish  Eden;   for  the  skies 

Were  loftier  in  that  garden,  and  the  clouds 

More  summer-gracious,  edged  with  broader  white  ; 

And  when  they  rained,  it  was  a  golden  rain 

7'hat  sparkled  as  it  fell  —  an  odorous  rain. 

And  then  its  wonder-heart !  —  a  little  room, 

Half  hollowed  in  the  side  of  a  steep  hill : 

The  hill  was  with  a  circular  temple  crowned, 

A  landmark  to  far  seas ;   the  room  below 

Was  clouded  ever  in  the  gentle  night 

Of  a  luxuriant  ivy,  and  its  door. 

Half  filled  with  rainbow  hues  of  colored  glass, 

Opened  into  the  bosom  of  the  hill. 

Never  to  sesame  of  mine  that  door 

Gave  up  its  sanctuary;   but  through  the  glass, 


A   STORY  OF  THE    SEA-SHORE.  6/ 

Gazing  with  reverent  curiosity, 

I  saw  a  little  chamber,  round  and  high. 

Which  to  behold  was  to  escape  the  heat. 

And  bathe  in  coolness  of  the  eye  and  brain. 

All  was  a  dusky  green ;   for  on  one  side, 

A  window,  half  blind  with  ivy  manifold, 

Whose  leaves,  like  heads  of  gazers,  climbed  to   the 

top. 
Gave  all  the  light ;  and  all  the  light  that  came 
Through  the  thick  veil,  was  green,  O  kindest  hue  ! 
But  the  heart  has  a  heart,  and  here  was  one ; 
For  in  the  midst,  the  evermore  of  all, 
On  a  low  column  stood,  white,  cold,  and   clear, 
A  marble  woman.     Who  she  was  I  know  not  — 
A  Psyche,  or  a  Silence,  or  an  Echo. 
Pale,  undefined,  a  silvery  shadow,  still. 
In  one  lone  chamber  of  my  memory, 
She  is  a  power  upon  me,  as  of  old. 

But  ah !    to  dream  there  through  hot  summer  days, 
In  coolness  shrouded  and  sea-murmurings, 
Forgot  by  all  till  twilight  shades  grew  dark ! 
To  find  half  hidden  in  the  hollowed  wall. 


6S  A    STORY   OF  THE   SEA-SHORE. 

A  nest  of  tales,  quaint  volumes  such  as  dreams 

Hoard  up  in  book-shops  dim  in  tortuous  streets  ! 

That  wondrous  marble  woman  evermore 

Filling  the  gloom  with  calm  delirium 

Of  radiated  whiteness,  as  I  read  1 

The  fancied  joy,  too  plenteous  for  its  cup, 

O'erflowed,  and  turned  to  sadness  as  it  fell. 

But  the  gray  ruin  on  the  shattered  shore, 
Not  the  green  refuge  in  the  bowering  hill. 
Drew  forth  our  talk  that  day.     For,  as  I  said, 
I  asked  her  if  she  knew  it.     She  replied, 
"  I  know  it  well.     A  woman  used  to  live 
In  one  of  its  low  vaults,  my  mother  says." 
"  I  came  once  on  a  turret  stair,"  I  said, 
"Leading  from  level  of  the  ground  above 
To  a  low-vaulted  room  within  the  rock. 
Whence   through   a    small    square  opening  you  look 

forth 
Wide  o'er  the  sea ;   but  the  dim-sounding  waves 
Are  many  feet  below,  and  shrunk  in  size 
To  a  great  ripple."  —  "  'Twas  not  there,"  she  said,  — 
"  Not  in  that  room  half  up  the  cliff,  but  one 


A   STORY   OF   THE   SEA-SHORE.  69 

Below,  within  the  margin  of  spring-tides  ; 
So  that  when  tides  and  northern  winds  are  high, 
'Tis  more  an  ocean-cave  than  castle-vault." 
And  then  she  told  me  all  she  knew  of  her. 

It  was  a  simple  tale,  with  facts  but  few : 
She  clomb  one  sunny  hill,  gazed  once  abroad, 
Then  slowly  sank  to  pace  a  dreary  plain. 
Alas !  how  many  such  are  told  by  night. 
In  fisher-cottages  along  the  shore ! 

Farewell,  old  summer-day!  I  turn  aside 
To  tell  my  story,  interwoven  with  thoughts 
Born  of  its  sorrow;  for  I  dare  not  think 
A  woman  at  the  mercy  of  a  sea. 

THE   STORY. 

Ay  as  it  listeth  blows  the  listless  wind, 
Swelling  great  sails,  and  bending  lordly  masts, 
Or  scaring  shadow-waves  o'er  fields  of  corn, 
And  hunting  lazy  clouds  across  the  sky : 
Now,  like  a  white  cloud  o'er  another  sky. 
It  blows  a  tall  brig  from  the  harbor's  mouth 


yo  A    STORY   OF  THE   SEA-SHORE. 

Out  'mid  the  high-tossed  heads  of  broken  waves, 
And  hoverings  of  long-pinioned  arrowy  birds. 
With  clouds  and  birds  and  sails  and  broken  crests, 
All  space  is  full  of  spots  of  fluttering  white, 
And  yet  one  sailor  knows  that  handkerchief 
Waved  wet  with  tears,  and  heavy  in  the  wind. 
Blow,  wind !  draw  out  the  cord  that  binds  the  twain ; 
Draw,  for  thou  canst  not  break  the  lengthening  cord. 
Blow,  wind  !  yet  gently ;  gently  blow,  fair  wind  ! 
And  let  love's  vision  slowly,  gently  die  ; 
Let  the  bright  sails  all  solemn-slowly  pass. 
And  linger  ghost-like  o'er  the  vanished  hull. 
With  a  white  farewell  to  her  straining  eyes ; 
For  nevermore  in  morning's  level  beams 
Will  those  sea-shadowing  sails,  storm-stained  and  worn, 
From  the  gray-billowed  north  come  dancing  in ; 
And  never,  gliding  home  'neath  starry  skies. 
Over  the  dark  of  the  dim-glancing  sea. 
Will  the  great  ship  send  forth  a  herald  cry 
Of  home-come  sailors,  into  sleeping  streets. 
Blow  gently,  wind !  blow  slowly,  gentle  wind ! 

Weep  not  yet,  maiden ;  'tis  not  yet  thy  hour. 
Why  shouldst  thou  weep  before  thy  time  is  come? 


A   STORY   OF  THE    SEA-SHORE.  /I 

Go  to  thy  work ;  break  into  song  sometimes,  — 

Song  dying  slow  forgotten,  in  the  lapse 

Of  dreamy  thought,  ere  natural  pause  ensue ; 

Or  broken  sudden  when  the  eager  heart 

Hurries  the  ready  eye  to  north  and  east. 

Sing,  maiden,  while  thou  canst,  ere  yet  the  truth, 

Slow  darkening  on  thee,  choke  the  founts  of  song. 

The  weeks  went  by.     Oft  leaving  household  work, 
With  bare  arms  and  uncovered  head  she  clomb 
The  landward  slope  of  the  prophetic  hill ; 
From  whose  green  head,  as  from  the  verge  of  time, 
Far  out  on  the  eternity  of  waves. 
Shading  her  hope-rapt  eyes,  seer-like  she  gazed, 
If  from  the  Hades  of  the  nether  world. 
Slow  climbing  up  the  round  side  of  the  earth, 
Haply  her  prayers  were  drawing  his  tardy  sails 
Over  the  threshold  of  the  far  horizon, — 
Drawing  her  sailor  home,  to  celebrate 
With  holy  rites  of  family  and  church 
The  apotheosis  of  maidenhood. 

Months  passed ;  he  came  not ;  and  a  shadowy  fear, 
Long  haunting  the  horizon  of  her  soul. 
In  deeper  gloom  and  sharper  form  drew  nigh  ; 


72  A   STORY   OF  THE   SEA-SHORE. 

And  growing  in  bulk,  possessed  her  atmosphere, 

And  lost  all  shape,  because  it  filled  all  space, 

And  reached  beyond  the  bounds  of  consciousness; 

But  in  sudden  incarnations  darting  swift 

From  out  its  infinite  a  gulfy  stare 

Of  terror  blank,  and  hideous  emptiness, 

And  widowhood  or  ever  wedding-day. 

On  granite  ridge,  and  chalky  cliff,  and  pier. 
Far  built  into  the  waves  along  our  shores, 
Maidens  have  stood  since  ever  ships  went  forth  ; 
The  same  pain  at  the  heart ;  the  same  slow  mist 
Clouding  the  eye  ;  the  same  fixed  longing  look, 
As  if  the  soul  had  gone  out  and  left  the  door 
Wide  open  —  gone  to  lean  and  peep  and  peer 
Over  the  awful  edge  where  voidness  sinks 
Sheer  to  oblivion  —  that  horizon-line 
Over  whose  edge  he  vanished  —  came  no  more. 
O  God,  why  are  our  souls  lone,  helpless  seas. 
Tortured  with  such  immitigable  storm  ? 
What  is  this   love,  that  now  on  angel  wing 
Sweeps  us  amid  the  stars  in  passionate  calm  ; 
And  now  with  demon  arms  fast  cincturing, 
Drops  us,  through  all  gyrations  of  keen  pain. 


A   STORY   OF  THE   SEA-SHORE.  73 

Down  the  black  vortex,  till  the  giddy  whirl 

Gives  fainting  respite  to  the  ghastly  brain  ? 

O  happy  they  for  whom  the  Possible 

Opens  its  gates  of  madness,  and  becomes 

The  Real  around   them !     those  to  whom  henceforth 

There  is  but  one  to-morrow,  the  next  morn, 

Their  wedding-day,  ever  one  step  removed ; 

The  husband's  foot  ever  upon  the  verge 

Of  the  day's  threshold,  in  a  lasting  dream ! 

Such  madness  may  be  but  a  formless  faith,  — 

A  chaos  which  the  breath  of  God  will  blow 

Into  an  ordered  world  of  seed  and  fruit? 

Shall  not  the  Possible  become  the  Real  ? 

God  sleeps  not  when  He  makes  his  daughters  dream. 

Shall  not  the  morrow  dawn  which  leads  at  last 

The  maiden-ghost,  confused  and  half  awake, 

Into  the  land  whose  shadows  are  our  dreams? 

Thus  questioning  we  stand  upon  the  shore, 

And  gaze  across  into  the  Unrevealed. 

Upon  its  visible  symbol  gazed  the  girl, 
Till  earth  behind  her  ceased,  and  sea  was  all. 
Possessing  eyes  and  brain  and  shrinking  soul ; 
So  smooth,  because  all  mouth  to  swallow  up, 


74  A   STORY   OF  THE   SEA-SHORE. 

And  cover  the  invisible  with   blue  smile ; 

A  still  monotony  of  greed  and  loss, 

Its  only  voice  an  endless  dreary  song 

Of  wailing,  and  of  craving  from  the  shore  ; 

A  low  dull  dirge  that  ever  rose  and  died, 

Recurring  without  pause  or  change  or  close 

Like  one  verse  chanted  ever   in  sleepless  brain. 

Down  to  the  shore  it  drew  her,  drew  her  down. 

Like  witch's  spell,  that  fearful  endless  moan  ; 

For  somewhere  in  the  green  abyss  below, 

His  body,  in  the  centre  of  the  moan. 

Obeyed  the  motions  whence  the  moaning  grew; 

Now  in  a  circle  slow  revolved,  and  now 

Swaying  like  wind-swung  bell,  or  swept  along 

Hither  and  thither,  idly  to  and  fro, 

In  heedless  wandering  through  the  heedless  sea. 

The  fascination  drew  her  onward  still ; 

On  to  the  ridgy  rocks  that  seaward   ran, 

And  out  along  their  furrows  and  jagged  backs, 

To  the  last  lonely  point  where  the  green  mass 

Arose    and    sank,  heaved   slow  and   forceful.     There 

She  shuddered  and  recoiled.     Then,  for  a  time 

From  that  hour^  to  and  fro  between  she  went, 


A   STORY   OF  THE   SEA-SHORE.  75 

'Twixt  shore  and  ocean  alternating  —  ever 
Drawn  to  the   greedy  lapping  lip,  and  ever 
Once  more  repelled,  with  terror  sudden  stung; 
For  there  the  heartless,  miserable  depth 
Lay  in  close  wait,  with  horror's  glittering  eye 
Enticing   her  to  its  green  gulfing  maw. 

At  length  a  faint  hope   grew,  that,  once    the  prey 
Of  the  cruel  waters,  she,  death's  agony  o'er, 
Must,  in  the  washing  of  perennial  waves, 
In  some  far  century,  aeons  remote. 
But  in  an  hour  sure-fixed  of  pitiful  fate, 
All-conscious  still  of  love,  despite  the  deep. 
Float  over  some  stray  bone,  some  particle, 
An  all-diffused  sense  would  know  as  his  ; 
Then  would  she  sit  her  down,  and  watch  the  tide. 
Slow  growing,  till  it  touched  at  length  her  feet. 
When,  terror-stricken,  she  w^ould  spring  upright. 
And  turn,  and  flee  aghast,  with  white-rimmed  eye. 

But  still,  where'er   she  fled,  the   strange  voice  fol- 
lowed ; 
Whisperings  innumerable  of  water-drops 
Growing  together  to  a  giant  cry  ; 
Which,  now  in  hoarse,  half  stifled  undertones, 


je  A   STORY   OF  THE   SEA-SHORE. 

And  now  in  thunderous  peals  of  billowy  shouts, 

Called  after  her  to  come,  and  make  no  stay. 

P>om  the  low  mists  that  mingled  with  the  clouds, 

And  from  the  tossings  of  the  lifted   waves, 

Where  plunged  and  rose  the  raving  wilderness, 

Voices,  pursuing  arms,  and  beckoning  hands 

Came  shorewards,  feeling,  reaching  after   her. 

Then  would  she  fling  her   gaunt  wild  arms  on  high, 

Over  her  head,  in  tossings  like  the  waves. 

Or  fix  them,  with  clasped  hands  of  prayer  intense, 

Forward,  appealing  to  the  bitter  sea ; 

Or  sudden  from  her  shoulders  she  would  tear 

Her  garments,  one  by  one,  and  cast  them  out 

Into  the  roarings  of  the  heedless  surge, 

A  vain  oblation  to  the  hungry  waves. 

As  vain  was  pity's  care  to  cover  her ; 

Best  gifts  but  bribed  the  sea,  and  left  her  bare. 

But  such  a  fire  was  burning  in  her  brain. 

That  all-unheeded,  cold  winds  lapped  her  round, 

And  sleet-like  spray  flashed  on  her  tawny  skin. 

Even  her  food  she  brought  and  flung  it  far, 

To  feed  the  sea  —  with  naked  arms,  and  hair 

Streaming  like  rooted  weed  on  windy  tides, 


A    STORY  OF   THE   SEA-SHORE.  'J'J 

Coal-black  and  lustreless.     But  evermore 

Back  came  the  wave,  while  floated  yet  at  hand 

Her  sacrifice  accepted  ;  so  despair, 

Back  surging,  on  her   heart  rushed  ever  afresh  : 

She    sickening    moaned,  —  half    muttered    and   half 

moaned,  — 
"  She  will  not  be  content ;  she'll  have  me  yet." 
But  when  the  night  grew  thick  upon  the  sea, 
Quenching  it  all,  except  its  quenchless  voice, 
She,  half  released  until  the  light,  would  rise, 
And  step  by  step  withdraw ;  as  dreaming  man. 
With  an  eternity  of  slowness,  drags 
His  earth-bound,  lead-like,  irresponsive  feet 
Back  from  a  sleeping  horror  that  will  wake  ; 
Until,  upon  the  narrow  beach  arrived, 
She  turned  her  back  at  last  upon  her   foe; 
Then,  clothed  in  all  the  might  of  the  Unseen, 
Terror  grew  ghastly,  and  she  shrieked  and  fled  — 
Fled  to  the  battered  base  of  the  old  tower. 
And  round  the  rock,  and  through  the  arched  gap, 
Into  the  opening  blackness  of  the  vault. 
And  sank  upon  the  sand,  and  gasped,  and  raved. 
There,  cowering  in  a  nook,  she  sat  all  night. 


78  A   STORY   OF  THE   SEA-SHORE. 

Her  eyes  fixed  on  the  entrance  of  the  cave, 
Through  which  a  pale  light  shimmered  —  from  the  eye 
Of  the  great  sleepless  ocean  —  Argus  more  dread 
Than  he  with   hundred  lidless  watching  orbs ; 
And  when  she  slept,  still  saw  the  sea  in  dreams. 
But  in  the  stormy  nights,  when  all  was  dark, 
And  the  wild  tempest  swept  with  slanting  wing 
Against  her  refuge  ;    and  the  heavy  spray 
Shot  through  the  doorway  serpentine  cold  arms 
To  seize  the  fore-doomed  morsel  of  the  sea. 
She  slept  not,  evermore  stung  to  new  life 
By  new  sea-terrors.     Now  it  was  the  gull. 
Whose  clanging  pinions  darted  through  the  arch. 
And  flapped  about  her  head  ;  and  now  a  wave 
Grown  arrogant,  that  rushed  into  her  vault, 
Clasped  her  waist-high,  and  out  again  and  away 
To  swell  the  devilish  laughter  in  the  fog: 
It  left  her  clinging  to  the  rocky  wall. 
Watching  with  white  face  lest  it  came  again ; 
And  though  the  tide  were  ebbing,  she  slept  not  yet, 
But  sat  unmoving,  till  the  low  gray  dawn 
Grew  on  the  misty  dance  of  spouting  waves, 
Seen  like  a  picture  through  the  arched  door; 


A   STORY   OF  THE   SEA-SHORE.  79 

At  which  the  old  fascination  woke  and  drew, 
And,  rising  slowly,  forth  she  went  once  more 
To  haunt  the  border  of  the  dawning  sea. 

Yet  all  the  time  there  lay  within  her  soul 
An  inner  chamber,  quietest  place  ;  her  love 
Had  closed  its  door,  and  held  her  in  the  storm. 
She,  entering  there,  had   found  a  refuge  calm 
As  summer  evening,  or  a  mother's  arms. 
There  had  she  found  her  lost  love,  only  lost 
In  that  he  slept  nor  yet  would  be  awaked  ; 
And  waiting  for  her  there,  watching  the  lost, 
The  Love  that  waits  and  watches  evermore. 

Thou  too  hast  such  a  chamber,  quietest  place, 
Where  God  is  waiting  for  thee.     What  is  it 
That  will  not  let  thee  enter?     Is  it  care 
For  the  provision  of  the  unborn  day, 
As  if  thou  wert  a  God  that  must  foresee  ? 
Is^  it  thy  craving  for  the  praise  of  men  ? 
Ambition  to  outstrip  them  in  the  race 
Of  wealth  or  honor  ?     Is  it  love  of  self, 
The  greed  that  still  to  have  must  still  destroy .?  — 
Go  mad  for  some  lost  love  ;  some  voice  of  old. 
Which  first  thou  madest  sing,  and  after  sob  ; 


80  A   STORY   OF  THE   SEA-SHORE. 

Some  heart  thou  foundest  rich,  and  leftest  bare, 

Choking  its  well  of  faith  with  thy  false  deeds  ; 

Not  like  thy  God,  who  keeps  the  better  wine 

Until  the  last,  and,  if  He  giveth  grief, 

Giveth  it  first,  and  ends  the  tale  with  joy. 

Such  madness  clings  about  the  feet  of  God, 

For  love  informs  it.     Better  a  thousandfold 

Be  she  than  thou !  for  though  thy  brain  be  strong 

And  clear  and  active,  hers  a  withered  fruit 

That  nourishes  no  seed  ;  her  heart  is  full 

Of  that  in  whose  might  God  did  make  the  world,  — 

A  living  well,  and  thine  an  empty  cup. 

It  was  the  invisible  unbroken  cord 

Between  the  twain,  her  and  her  sailor-lad, 

That  drew  her  ever  to  the  ocean  marge. 

Better  to  die,  better  to  rave  for  love. 

Than  never  to  have  loved  ;  or  having  sought 

The  love  of  love,  nor  gained  responsive  boon, 

To  turn  away  with  sickly  sneering  heart ! 

But  if  thy  heart  be  noble,  think  and  say 
If  thou  rememberest  not  one  hour  of  torture. 
When,  maddened  with  the  thought  that  could  not  be, 
Thou  mightst  have  yielded  to  the  demon  wind 


A   STORY   OF  THE   SEA-SHORE.  8 1 

That  swept  in  tempest  through  thy  scorching  brain, 
And  rushed  into  the  night,  and  howled  aloud, 
And  clamored  to  the  waves,  and  beat  the  rocks ; 
And  never  found  thy  way  back  to  the  seat 
Of  conscious  self,  and  power  to  rule  thy  pain, 
Had  not  God  made  thee  strong  to  bear  and  live; 
Then  own  at  least  this  woman's  story  fit 
For  poet's  tale ;  and  in  her  wildest  moods, 
Acknowledge  her  thy  sister.     Then  thy  love, 
In  the  sad  face,  whose  eyes,  like  suns  too  fierce, 
Have  parched  and  paled  the  cheeks  —  in  that  spare 

form, 
Deformed  by  tempests  of  the  soul  and  sea. 
Will  soon  unmask  a  shape  of  loveliness 
Fit  to  remind  thee  of  a  story  old 
Which  God  has  in  his  keeping  —  of  thyself. 

But  not  forgot  are  children  when  they  sleep. 
The  darkness  lasts  all  night  and  clears  the  eyes ; 
Then  comes  the  morning  and  the  joy  of  light. 
O,  surely  madness  hideth  not  from  Him ! 
Nor  doth  a  soul  cea^  to  be  beautiful 
In  his  sight,  that  its  beauty  is  withdrawn, 
And  hid  by  pale  eclipse  from  human   eyes. 
6 


82  A   STORY   OF  THE   SEA-SHORE. 

As  the  white  snow  is  friendly  to  the  earth, 
And  pain  and  loss  are  friendly  to  the  soul, 
Shielding  it  from  the  black  heart-killing  frost ; 
So  may  a  madness  be  one  of  God's  winters, 
And  when  the  winter  over  is  and  gone. 
Then  smile  the  skies,  and  blooms  the  earth  again, 
For  the  fair  time  of  singing  birds  is  come  : 
Into  the  cold  wind  and  the  howling  night, 
God  sent  for  her,  and  she  was  carried  in 
Where  there  was  no  more  sea. 

What  messenger 
Ran  from  the  door  of  heaven  to  bring  her  home  ? 
The  sea,  her  terror. 

In  the  rocks  that  stand 
Below  the  cliff,  there  lies  a  rounded  hollow. 
Scooped   like   a   basin,  with    jagged     and    pinnacled 

sides  : 
This,  buried  low  when  winds  heap  up  the   tide. 
Lifts  in  the  respiration  of  the  surge. 
Its  broken,  toothed  edge,  and  deep  within 
Lies  resting  water,  radiantly  cWar. 
There,  on  a  morn  of  sunshine,  while  the  wind 
Yet  blew,  and  heaved  yet  the  billowy  sea 


A  STORY   OF  THE   SEA-SHORE.  83 

With  memories  of  a  night  of  stormy  dreams, 
At  rest  they  found  her :  in  the  sleep  v^^hich  is 
And  is  not  death,  she,  lying  very  still, 
Gathered  the  bliss  that  follows  after  pain. 
O  life  of  love,  conquered  at  last  by  fate  ! 
O  life  raised  from  the  dead  by  savior  Death  ! 
O  love  unconquered  and  invincible ! 
The  enemy  sea  had  cooled  her  burning  brain  ; 
Had  laid  to  rest  those  limbs  that  could  not  rest ; 
Had  hid  the  horror  of  its  own  dread  face. 
'Twas  but  one  desolate  cry,  and  then  her  fear 
Became  a  blessed  fact,  and  straight  she  knew 
What  God  knew  all  the  time,  —  that  it  was  well. 

O  thou  whose  feet  tread  ever  the  wet  sands 
And  howling  rocks  along  the  wearing  shore, 
Roaming  the  confines  of  the  sea  of  death  ! 
Strain  not  thine  eyes,  bedimmed  with  longing  tears  ; 
No  sail  comes  climbing  back  across  that  line. 
Turn  thee  and  to  thy  work  ;  let  God  alone  ; 
And  wait  for  Him  :  faint  o'er  the  waves  will  come 
Far  floating  whispers  from  the  other  shore 
To  thine  averted  ears.     Do  thou  thy  work. 
And  thou  shalt  follow ;  follow,  and  find  thine  own. 


84  A   STORY   OF  THE   SEA-SHORE. 

And  thou  who  fearest  something  that  may  come ! 
Around  whose  house  the  storm  of  terror  breaks 
All  night !  to  whose  love-sharpened  ear,  all  day, 
The  Invisible  is  calling  at  the  door, 
To  render  up  a  life  thou  canst  not  keep, 
Or  love  that  will  not  stay  !  —  open  thy  door, 
And  carry  forth  thy  dying  to  the  marge 
Of  the  great  sea  ;  yea,  walk  into  the  flood, 
And  lay  the  bier  upon  the  moaning  waves. 
Give  God  thy  dead  to  bury ;  float  it  again, 
With  sighs  and  prayers  to  waft  it  through  the  gloom, 
Back  to  the  spring  of  life.     Say,  —  "  If  it  die, 
Yet  thou,  the  life  of  life,  art  still  alive. 
And  thou  canst  make  thy  dead  alive  again." 

Ah  God !  the  earth  is  full  of  cries  and  moans, 
And  dull  despair,  that  neither  moans  nor  cries ; 
Thousands  of  hearts  are  waiting  helplessly ; 
The  whole  creation  groaneth,  travaileth 
For  what  it  knows  not,  but  with  dull-eyed  hope 
Of  resurrection,  or  of  dreamless  death ! 
Raise  thou  the  dead  of  Aprils  past  and  gone 
In  hearts  of  maidens  ;  restore  the  autumn  fruits 
Of  old  men  feebly  mournful  o'er  the  life 


A   STORY   OF  THE  SEA-SHORE.  85 

Which  scarce  hath  memory  but  the  mournfulness. 
There  is  no  past  with  thee ;  bring  back  once  more 
The  summer  eves  of  lovers,  over  which 
The  wintry  wind  that  raveth  through  the  world 
Heaps  wretched  leaves,  half  tombed  in  ghastly  snow  ; 
Bring  back  the  mother-heaven  of  orphans  lone, 
The  brother's  and  the  sister's  faithfulness  ; 
Bring  forth  the  kingdom  of  the  Son  of  Man. 

They  troop  around  me,  children  wildly  crying; 
Women  with  faded  eyes,  all  spent  of  tears ; 
Men  who  have  lived  for  love,  yet  lived  alone  ; 
And  other  worse,  whose  grief  cannot  be  said. 
O  God,  thou  hast  a  work  fit  for  thy  strength, 
To  save  these  hearts  of  thine  with  full  content  — 
Except  thou  give  them  Lethe's  stream  to  drink. 
And  that,  my  God,  were  all  unworthy  thee. 

Dome  up,  O  heaven !  yet  higher  o'er  my  head  ; 
Back,  back,  horizon !  widen  out  my  world ; 
Rush  in,  O  infinite  sea  of  the  Unknown ! 
For,  though  He  slay  me,  I  will  trust  in  God. 


TO   LADY   NOEL   BYRON. 

They  sought  and  sought,  for  wealth's  dear  sake, 

The  wizard  men  of  old, 
After  the  secret  that  should  make 

The  meaner  metals  gold. 

A  nobler  alchemy  is  thine, 

Learned  in  thy  sore  distress : 
Gold  in  thy  hand  becomes  divine  — 

Grows  truth  and  tenderness. 


TO  THE   SAME. 

Dead,  why  defend  thee,  who  in  life 
Wouldst  for  thy  foe  have  died  ? 

Who,  thy  own  name  the  word  of  strife, 
Hadst  silent  stood  aside. 

Grand  in  forgiveness,  what  to  thee 

The  moralizer's  prate  ? 
Or  thy  great  heart  hath  ceased  to  be, 

Or  loveth  still  its  mate. 


TO    AURELIO    SAFFL 

To  God  and  man  be  simply  true; 
Do  as  thou  hast  been  wojit  to  do ; 
Or,    Of  the  old  more  in  the  7tew, 
Mean  all  the  same  when  said  to  you. 

I   love  thee :  thou  art  calm  and  strong ; 
Firm  in  the  right,  mild  to  the  wrong  ; 
Thy  heart,  in  every  raging   throng, 
A  chamber  shut   for  prayer  and  song. 

Defeat  thou  know'st  not,  canst  not  know ; 
'Tis  that  thy  aims  so  lofty  go. 
They  need  as  long  to  root  and  grow 
As  infant  hills  to  reach  the  snow. 

Press  on  and  prosper,  holy  friend. 

I,  weak  and  ignorant,  would  lend 

A  voice,   thee,   strong  and  wise,  to  send 

Prospering  onward,  without  end. 


THE   DISCIPLE 


THE  DISCIPLE. 


THE  times  are  changed,  and  gone  the  day 
When  the  high  heavenly  land, 
Though  unbeheld,  quite  near  them  lay, 
And  men  could  understand. 

The  dead  yet  find  it,  who,  when  here, 

Did  love  it  more  than  this; 
They  enter  in,  are  filled  with  cheer, 

And  pain  expires  in  bliss. 

All-glorious  gleams  the  blessed  land! 

Ah  God  !  I  weep  and  pray : 
The  heart  thou  boldest  in   thy  hand 

Loves  more  this  sunny  day. 


92  THE   DISCIPLE. 

I  see  the  hundred  thousand  wait 
Around  the  radiant  throne  : 

Ah,  what  a  dreary,  gilded  state  ! 
What  crowds  of  beings  lone ! 

I  do  not  care  for  singing  psalms  j 
I  tire  of  good    men's  talk ; 

To  me  there  is  no  joy  in  palms, 
Or  white-robed,  solemn  walk. 

I  love  to  hear  the  wild  winds  meet,  — 
The  wild  old  winds  at  night; 

To  watch  the  cold  stars  flash  and  beat, 
The  feathery  snow  alight. 

I  love  all  tales  of  valiant  men, 
Of  women  good  and  fair  : 

If  I  were  rich  and  strong,  ah !  then 
I  would  do  something  rare. 

But  for  thy  temple  in  the  sky. 
Its  pillars  strong  and  white, — 

I  cannot  love  it,  though  I  try 
And  long  with  all  my  might. 


THE   DISCIPLE. 

Sometimes  a  joy  lays  hold  on  me, 
And  I  am  speechless  then ; 

Almost  a  martyr  I  could  be, 
To  join  the  holy  men. 

Straightway  my  heart   is  like  a  clod. 
My  spirit  wrapt  in  doubt : 
"  A  pillar  in  the  house  of  God^ 
And  never  more  go  out  P^ 

No  more  the  sunny,  breezy  morn ; 

No  more  the  glowing  noon ; 
No  more  the  silent  heath  forlorn  j 

No  more  the  waning  moon  ! 

My  God,  this  heart  will  never  burn. 
Will  never  taste  thy  joy ; 

Even  Jesus'  face  is  calm  and  stern  : 
I  am  a  hapless  boy. 


93 


94  THE  DISCIPLE. 


I  read  good  books.     My  heart  despairs. 

In  vain  I  try  to  dress 
My  soul  in  feelings  like  to  theirs, — 

These  men  of  holiness. 

My  thoughts,  like  doves,  abroad  I  fling 

To  find  a  country  fair : 
Wind-baffledj  back,  they,  with  tired  wing, 

To  my  poor  ark  repair. 

Or  comes  a  sympathetic  thrill 

With  long-departed  saint, 
A  feeble  dawn,  without  my  will. 

Of  feelings  old  and  quaint. 

As  of  a  church's  holy  night. 
With  low-browed  chapels  round, 

Where  common  sunshine  dares  not  light 
On  the  too  sacred  ground, — 

One  glance  at  sunny  fields  of  grain, 
One  shout  of  child  at  play,  — 


THE   DISCIPLE.  9$ 

A  merry  melody  drives  amain 
The  one-toned  chant  away. 

My  spirit  will  not  enter  here, 

To  haunt  the  holy  gloom  ; 
I  gaze  into  a  mirror  mere, — 

A  mirror,  not  a  room. 

And  as  a  bird  against  the  pane 

Oft  strikes,  deceived  sore, 
So  I,  who  would  go  in,  remain 

Outside  some  closed  door. 

O  !  it  will  cost  me  many  a  sigh. 

If  this  be  what  it  claims,  — 
This  book,  so  unlike  earth  and  sky, 

Unlike  my  hopes  and  aims  ; 

To  me  a  desert  parched  and  bare, 

In  which  a  spirit  broods 
Whose  wisdom  I  would  gladly  share 

At  cost  of  many  goods. 


96  THE  DISCIPLE. 

III. 

0  hear  me,  God !     O  give  me  joy, 
Such  as  thy  chosen  feel  ; 

Have  pity  on  a  wretched  boy, 
Whose  heart  is  hard  as  steel. 

1  have  no  care  for  what  is  good  ; 
Thyself  I  do  not  love  ; 

I  relish  not  this  bible-food ; 
My  heaven  is  not  above. 

Thou  wilt  not  hear.     I  come  no  more. 

Thou  heedest  not  my  woe. 
With  sighs  and  tears  my  heart  is  sore. 

Thou  comest  not.     I  go. 


IV. 

Once  more  I  kneel.     The  earth  is  dark, 

And  darker  yet  the  air; 
If  light  there  be,  'tis  but  a  spark 

Amid  a  world's  despair  — 


THE   DISCIPLE.  97 

A  hopeless  hope  there  yet  may  be, — 

A  God  somewhere  to  hear ; 
A  God  to  whom  I  bend  my  knee, 

A  God  with  open  ear. 

I  know  that  men  laugh  still  to  scorn 

The  grief  that  is  my  lot ; 
Such  wounds,  they  say,  are  hardly  borne. 

But  easily  forgot 

What  matter  that  my  sorrows  rest 

On  ills  which  men  despise ! 
More  hopeless  heaves  my  aching  breast, 

Than  when  a  prophet  sighs. 

-^ons  of  griefs  have  come  and  gone,  — 

My  grief  is  yet  my  mark. 
The  sun  sets  every  night,  yet  none 

Sees  therefore  in  the  dark. 

There  's  love  enough  upon  the  earth. 
And  beauty  too,  they  say: 
7 


98  THE   DISCIPLE. 

There  may  be  plenty,  may  be  dearth, 
I  care  not  any  way. 

The  world  has  melted  from   my  sight; 

No  grace  in  life  is  left ; 
I  cry  to  thee  with  all  my  might, 

Because  I  am  bereft. 

In  vain  I  cry.     The  earth  is  dark, 

And  darker  yet  the  air ; 
Of  light  there  trembles  now  no  spark 

In  my  lost  souFs  despair. 


I  sit  and  gaze  from  window  high 
Down  on  the  noisy  street. 

No  part  in  this  great  coil  have  I, 
No  fate  to  go  and  meet. 

My  books  unopened  long  have  lain  ; 
In  class  I  am  all  astray : 


THE  DISCIPLE.  99 

The  questions  growing  in  my  brain 
Demand  and  have  their  way; 

Knowledge  is  power,  the  people  cry ; 

Grave  men  the  lure  repeat: 
After  some  rarer  thing  I  sigh, 

That  makes  the  pulses  beat. 

Old  truths,  new  facts,  they  preach  aloud,  — 

Their  tones  like  wisdom  fall : 
One  sunbeam  glancing  on  a  cloud, 

Hints  things  beyond  them  all. 


VI. 

But  something  is  not  right  within  ; 

High  hopes  are  all  gone  by. 
Was  it  a  bootless  aim  —  to  win 

Sight  of  a  loftier  sky  ? 

They  preach  men  should  not  faint,  but  pray. 
And  seek  until  they  find; 


100  THE   DISCIPLE. 

But  God  is  very  far  away, 
Nor  is  his  countenance  kind. 

And  yet  I  know  my  father  prayed, 
Withdrawing  from  the  throng  ; 

I  think  some  answer  must  have  made 
His  heart  so  high  and  strong. 

Once  more  I'll  seek  the  God  of  men, 
Redeeming  childhood's  vow. 

I  failed  with  bitter  weeping  then, 
And  fail  cold-hearted  now. 


VII. 

Why  search  for  God  ?     A  man  I  tread 

This  old  life-bearing  earth  ; 
High  thoughts  arise  and  lift  my  head  — 

In  me  they  have  their  birth. 

The  preacher  says  a  Christian  must 

Do  all  the  good  he  can ; 
I  must  be  noble,  true,  and  just. 

Because  I  am  a  man. 


THE   DISCIPLE.  lOI 

They  say  a  man  must  wake,  and  keep 

Lamp  burning,  garments  white, 
Else  he  shall  sit  without  and  weep 

When  Christ  comes  home  at  night; 

I  say,  his  manhood  must  be  free  ; 

Himself  he  dares  not  stain  ; 
He  must  not  soil  the  dignity 

Of  heart  and  blood   and  brain. 

Yes,  I  say  well !  for  words  are  cheap. 

What  action  have  I  borne? 
What  praise  will  my  one  talent  reap? 

What  grapes  are  on  my  thorn  ? 

Have  high  words  kept  me  pure  enough  ? 

In  evil  have  I  no  part  ? 
Hath  not  my  bosom  "  perilous  stuff. 

That  weighs  upon  the  heart  ? " 

I  am  not  that  I  well  may   praise ; 

I  do  not  that  I  say; 
I  sit  a  talker  in  the  ways, 

A  dreamer  in  the  day. 


102  THE   DISCIPLE. 

VIII. 

The  preacher's  words  are  true,  I  know, 

That  man  may  lose  his  life  ; 
That  every  man  must  downward  go 

Without  the  upward  strife. 

'Twere  well  my  soul  should  cease  to  roam, 
Should  seek  and  have  and  hold. 

It  may  be  there  is  yet  a  home 
In  that  religion  old. 

Again  I  kneel,  again  I  pray : 
Wi/t  thou  be  God  to  me? 
Wilt  thou  give  ear  to  what  I  say^ 
And  lift  me  up  to  thee  ? 

Lord,  is  it  true  ?     O,  vision    high ! 

The  clouds  of  heaven  dispart  ; 
An  opening  depth  of  loving  sky 

Looks  down  into  my  heart. 

There  is  a  home  wherein  to  dwell  — 
The  very  heart  of  light ! 


THE   DISCIPLE.  IO3 

Thyself  my  sun  immutable, 
My  moon  and  stars  all  night ! 

I  thank  thee,  Lord.     It  must  be  so, 

Its  beauty  is  so  good. 
Up  in  my  heart  thou  mad'st  it  go, 
And  I  have  understood. 

The  clouds  return.     The  common    day 

Falls  on  me  like  a  No; 
But  I  have  seen  what  might  be — may; 

And  with  a  hope  I  go. 

IX. 

I  am  a  stranger  in  the  land, 

It  gives  no  welcome  dear ; 
The  lilies  bloom  not  for  my  hand,  — 

The  roses  for  my  cheer. 

The  sunshine  used  to  make  me  glad. 

But  now  it  knows  me  not ; 
This  weight  of  brightness  makes  me  sad,  — 

It  isolates  a  blot. 


I04  THE   DISCIPLE. 

I  am  forgotten  by  the  hills, 

And  by  the  river's  play ; 
No  look  of  recognition  thrills 

The  features  of  the  day. 

Then  only  am  I  moved  to  song, 
When  down  the  darkening  street, 

While  vanishes  the  scattered  throng. 
The  driving  rain  I    meet. 

The  rain  pours  down.  My  thoughts  awake, 
Like  flowers  that  languished  long. 

From  bare  cold  hills  the  night-winds  break. 
From  me  the  unwonted  song. 


X. 

I  read  the  Bible  with  my  eyes, 
But  hardly  with  my  brain  ; 

Should  this  the  meaning  recognize, 
My  heart  yet  reads  in  vain. 

These  words  of  promise  and  of  woe 
Seem  but  a  tinkling  sound  ; 


THE   DISCIPLE.  105 

As  through  an  ancient  tomb  I  go, 
With  dust-filled  urns  around. 


Or,  as  a  sadly  searching  child, 
Afar  from  love  and  home, 

Sits  in  an  ancient  chamber  piled 
With  scroll  and  musty  tome  ; 

So  I,  in  these  epistles  old 
From  men  of  heavenly  care, 

Find  all  the  thoughts  of  other  mould 
Than  I  can  love  or  share. 

No  sympathy  with  mine  they  show. 
Their  world  is  not  the  same  ; 

They  move  me  not  with  joy  or  woe. 
They  touch  me  not  with   blame. 

I  hear  no  word  that  calls  my  life, 
Or  owns  my  struggling  powers  ; 

Those  ancient  ages  had  their  strife. 
But  not  a  strife  like  ours. 


I06  THE   DISCIPLE. 

O  !    not  like  men  they  move  and  speak, 

Those  pictures  in  old  panes ; 
Nor  alter  they  their  aspect  meek 

For  all  the  winds  and  rains. 

Their  thoughts  are  filled  with  figures  strange 

Of  Jewish  forms  and  rites  : 
A  world  of  air  and  sea  I  range, 

Of  mornin2:s  and  of  nights. 


XI. 

I  turn  me  to  the  gospel-tale. 

My  hope  is  faint  with  fear 
That  neediest  search  will  not  avail 

To  find  a  refuge  here. 

A  misty  wind  blows  bare  and  rude 
From  the  dead  sea  of  the  past ; 

And  through  the  clouds  that  halt  and  brood, 
Dim  dawns  a  shape  at  last : 


THE   DISCIPLE.  IO7 

A  sad  worn  man  who  bows  his  face, 

And  treads  a  frightful  path, 
To  save  an  abject  hopeless  race 

From  an  eternal  wrath. 

Kind  words  He  speaks  —  but  all  the  time 

As  from  a  pathless  height 
Where  human  feet  can  never  climb, 

Half  swathed  in  ancient  night. 

And  sometimes,  to  a  gentle  heart, 

His  words  unkindly  flow  ; 
Surely  it  is  no  Saviour's  part 

To  speak  to  women  so. 

Much  rather  would  I  refuge  take 

With  Mary,  dear  to  me, 
To  whom  those  rough  hard  words  He  spake, 

What  have  I  to  do  with  thee  ? 

Surely  I  know  men  tenderer, 

Women  of  larger  soul, 
Who  need  no  prayers  their  hearts  to  stir, 

Who  always  would  make  whole. 


I08  THE   DISCIPLE. 

Oftenest  He  looks  a  weary  saint, 
Embalmed  in  pallid  gleam, 

Listless  and  sad,  without  complaint, 
Like  dead  men  in  a  dream. 

But  at  the  best  He  is  uplift 

A  spectacle,  a  show  : 
To  me,  an  old,  an  outworn  gift, 

Whose  worth  I  cannot  know. 

I  have  no  love  to  pay  my  debt  — ■ 
He  leads  me  from  the  sun. 

Yet  it  is  hard  men  should  forget 
The  kindness  He  has  done  ; 

That  He,  to  expiate  a  curse, 

Upon  that  altar-hill, 
Beneath  a  sunless  universe. 

Did  suffer,  patient,  still. 

But  what  is  he,  whose  pardon  slow 
At  so  much  blood  is  priced  ? 

If  such  thou  art,  O  Jove,  I  go 
To  the  Promethean  Christ. 


THE   DISCIPLE.  ICQ 

XII. 

A  word  within  says  I  am  to  blame, 

And  therefore  must  confess  ; 
Must  call  my  doing  by  its  name, 

And  so  make  evil  less. 

"  I  could  not  his  false  triumph  bear. 

For  he  was  first  in  wrong." 
"Thy  own  ill-doings  are  thy  care, 

His  to  himself  belong." 

"  To  do  it  right,  my  heart  should  own 

Some  sorrow  for  the  ill." 
"  Plain,  honest  words  will  half  atone, 

And  they  are  in  thy  will." 

The  struggle  comes.     Evil  or  I 

Must  gain  the  victory  now. 
I  am  unmoved,  and  yet  would  try: 

O  God,  to  thee  I  bow. 

The  skies  are  brass  ;  there  falls  no  aid  ; 
No  wind  of  help  will  blow, 


no  THE  DISCIPLE. 

But  I  bethink  me  :   I  am  made 
A  man :  I  rise  and  go. 

XIII. 

To  Christ  I  needs  must  come,  they  say, 
Who  went  to  death  for  me  : 

I  turn  aside  ;  I  come,  I  pray, 
My  unknown  God,  to  thee. 

He  is  afar  ;   the  story  old 
Is  blotted,  worn,  and  dim  ; 

With  thee,  O  God,  I  can  be  bold — 
I  cannot  pray  to  Him. 

Pray  I    At  the  word  a  cloudy  grief 

Around  me  folds  its  pall: 
With  nothing  to  be  called  belief, 

How  can  I  pray  at  all  ? 

I  know  not  if  a  God  be  there 

To  heed  my  crying   sore. 
If  in  the  great  world  anywhere 

An  ear  keep  open  door. 


THE   DISCIPLE.  II I 

An  unborn  faith  I  will  not  nurse  j 

Nor  search  —  an  endless  task  j 
But  loud  into  its  universe 

My  soul  shall  call  and  ask. 

Is  there   no  God  —  earth,  sky,  and  sea 

Are   but  a  chaos  wild  ; 
Is  there  a  God  —  I  know  that  He 

Must  hear  his  calling  child. 


XIV. 

I  kneel.     But  all  my  soul  is   dumb 

With  hopeless  misery : 
Is  He  a  friend  who  will  not  come, 

Whose  face  I  may  not  see  ? 

It  is  not  fear  of  broken  laws, 
Or  judge's  damning  word ; 

It  is  a  lonely  pain,  because 
I  call  and  am  not  heard. 

A  cry  where  no  man  is  to  hear, 
Doubles  the  lonely  pain ; 


112  TPIE   DISCIPLE. 

Returns  in  silence  on  the  ear, 
In  torture  on  the  brain. 

No  look  of  love  a  smile  can  bring, 
No  kiss  wile  back  the  breath 

To  cold  lips  :    I  no  answer  wring 
From  this  great  face  of  death. 


XV. 

Yet  sometimes  when   the  agony 

Dies  of  its  own  excess, 
Unhoped  repose  descends  on  me, - 

A  rain  of  gentleness ; 

A  sense  of  bounty  and  of  grace, 
A  calm  within  my  breast. 

As  if  the  shadow  of  his  face 
Did  fall  on  me   and  rest. 

'Tis  God,  I  say,  and  cry  no  more 
Upraised,  with  strength  to  stand 

And  wait  unwearied  at  the  door. 
Till  comes  an  opening  hand. 


THE   DISCIPLE.  lU 


XVI. 


But  is  it  God?      Once  more  the  fear 
Of  No  God  loads  my  breath : 

Amidst  a  sunless  atmosphere, 
I  rise  to  fight  with  death. 

This  rest  may  be  but  such  as  lulls 
The  man  who  fainting  lies : 

His  bloodless  brain  his  spirit  dulls, 
With   darkness  veils  his  eyes. 

But  even  this,  my  heart  responds, 

May  be  the  ancient  rest 
Rising  released  from  frozen  bonds 

To  flow  and  fill  the  breast. 

The  o'ertasked  will  falls  down  aghast. 

In  individual    death  ; 
Then  God  takes  up  the  severed  past, 

And  breathes  the  primal  breath. 

For  torture's  self  can  breed  no  calm, 
Nor  death  to  life  give  birth  ; 


114  ^^^   DISCIPLE. 

No  labor  can  create  the  balm 
That  soothes  the  sleeping  earth. 

So  I  will  hope  it  is  The  One 

Whose  peace  is  life  in  me, 
Who,  when  my  strength  is  overdone, 

Inspires  serenity. 

XVII. 

When  the  hot  sun's  too  urgent  might 
Hath  shrunk  the  tender  leaf. 

The  dew  slides  down  the  blessed  night, 
And  cools  its  fainting  grief. 

When  poet's  heart  is  in  eclipse, 
A  glance  from  childhood's  eye, 

A  smile  from  passing  maiden's  lips. 
Will  clear  a  glowing  sky. 

Might  not  from  God  such  influence  come 

A  dying  hope  to   lift  ? 
Could   He   not   send,  in   trouble,  some 

Unmediated  gift  ? 


THE   DISCIPLE.  II 5 

My  child  is  moaning.     Far  in  dreams 

Which  her  own  heart  has  made, 
A  world  no  caring  love  redeems 

She  wanders,  much  afraid. 

I  lay  my  hand  upon  her  breast; 

Her  moaning  dies  away  ; 
She  waketh  not ;  but,  lost  in  rest, 

Sleeps  on  into  the  day. 

And  when  my  heart  with  soft  release 

Grows  calm  as  summer-sea, 
Shall  I  not  hope  the  God  of  peace 

Hath  laid  his  hand  on  me  } 


XVIII. 

But  why  from  thought  should  fresh  doubt  start 

An  ever-lengthening  cord  ? 
Might  He  not  make  my  troubled  heart 

Right  sure  it  was  the  Lord  ? 


God  will  not  give  a  little  boon 
To  turn  thee  from  the  best ; 


Il6  THE   DISCIPLE. 

A  granted  sign  might  all  too  soon 
Rejoice  thee  into  rest. 

Yet  could  not  any  sign,  though  grand 

As  hosts  of  fire  about, 
Though  lovely  as  a  sunset-land, 

Secure  thy  soul   from   doubt. 

A  smile  from  one  thou    lovest  well 
May  glad  thee  all  the  day  ; 

All  day  afar  thy  doubt  may  dwell, — 
Return  with  twilight  gray. 

For  doubt  will  come,  will  ever  come, 
'['hough  signs  be  perfect  good. 

Till  face  to  face  strikes  doubting  dumb, 
And  both  are  understood. 


XIX. 

I  shall  behold  Him  one  day,  nigh  ; 

Assailed  with  glory  keen. 
My  eyes  shall  open  wide,  and  I 

Shall  see  as  I  am  seen. 


THE   DISCIPLE.  II7 

Of  nothing  can  my  heart  be  sure 

Except  the  highest,  best : 
When  God  I  see  with  vision  pure, 

That  sight  will   be  my  rest. 

Therefore  I  look  with  longing  eye, 

And  still  my  hope  renew  ; 
Still  think  that  comfort  from  the  sky 

May  come  like  falling  dew. 


XX. 

But  if  a  vision  should  unfold 

That  I  might  banish  fear ; 
That  T,  the  chosen,  might  be  bold, 

And  walk  with  upright  cheer  ; 

My  heart  would  cry :  But  shares  my  race 

In  this  great  love  of  thine  ? 
I  pray,  put  me  not  in  good  case. 

If  others  lack  and  pine. 

Nor  claim  I  thus  a  loving  heart 
That  for  itself  is  mute  : 


Il8  THE   DISCIPLE. 

In  such  love  I  desire  no  part 
As  reaches  not  my  ropt. 

If  all  my  brothers  thou  dost  call 
As  children  to   thy  knee, 

Thou  givest  me  my  being's  all,  — 
Thou  sayest  child  to  me. 

If  thou  to  me  alone  shouldst  give, 
My  heart  were  all  beguiled  : 

It  would  not  be  because  I  live. 
And   am  my  Father's  child. 


XXI. 

As  little  comfort  would  it  bring, 
Amidst  a  throng  to  pass  ; 

To  stand  with  thousands  worshipping 
Upon  the  sea  of  glass  ; 

To  know  that  of  a  sinful  world, 
I  one  was  saved  as  well  ; 


THE   DISCIPLE.  119 

My  roll  of  ill  with  theirs  upfurled, 
And  cast  in  deepest  hell  ; 

That 'God  looked  bounteously  on  one, 

Because   on    many  men ; 
As  shone  Judaea's  earthly  sun 

Upon  the  healed  ten. 

No  ;  thou  must  be  a  God  to  me 

As  if  but  me  were  none  ; 
I  such  a  perfect  child  to  thee  * 

As  if  thou  hadst  but  one. 


XXII. 

Then,  O  my  Father,  hast  thou  not 

A  blessing  even  for  me } 
Shall  I  be,  barely,  not  forgot  ? 

Never  come  home  to  thee  ? 

Hast  thou  no  care  for  this  one  child, 
This  thinking,  living  need  ? 

Or  is  thy  countenance  only  mild, 
Thy  heart  not  love  indeed  ? 


120  THE   DISCIPLE. 

For  some  eternal  joy  I  pray, 
To  make  me  strong  and  free; 

Yea,  such  a  friend  I  need  alway 
As  thou  alone  canst  be. 

Art  thou  not,  by  infinitude, 

Able,  in  every  man, 
To  turn  thyself  to  every  mood 

Since  ever  life  began  ? 

Art  thou  not  each  man's  God  —  his  own. 

With  secret  words  between. 
As  thou  and  he  lived  all  alone, 

Insphered  in  silence  keen  ? 

Ah  God  !  my  heart  is  not  the  same 

As  any  heart  beside ; 
Nor  is  my  sorrow  or  my  blame, 

My  tenderness  or  pride. 

My  story  too,  thou  knowest,  God, 

Is  different  from  the  rest ; 
Thou  knowest  —  none  but  thee  —  the  load 

With  which  my  heart  is  pressed. 


THE  DISCIPLE.  121 

Hence  I  to  thee  a  love  might  bring, 

By  none  besides  me  due  ; 
One  pi-aiseful  song  at  least  might  sing 

Which  could  not  but  be  new. 


XXIII. 

Nor  seek  I  thus  to  stand  apart 

In  thee,  my  kind  above  ; 
'Tis  only  that  my  aching  heart 

Must  rest  ere  it  can  love. 

If  thou  love  not,  I  have  no  care, 
No  power  to  love,  no  hope. 

What  is  life  here  or  anywhere  ? 
Or  why  with  darkness  cope? 

I  scorn  love's  every  motion,  sign, 

So  feeble,  selfish,  low, 
If  thy  love  give  no  pledge  that  mine 

Shall  one  day  perfect  grow. 

But  if  thy  love  were  only  such, 
As,  tender  and  intense, 


122  THE  DISCIPLE. 

As,  tested  by  its  human  touch, 
Would  satisfy  my  sense 

Of  what  a  father  never  was 
But  should  be  to  his  son. 

My  heart  would  leap  for  joy,  because 
My  rescue  was  begun. 

And  then  my  love,  by  thine  set  free. 
Would  overflow  thy  men; 

In  every  face  my  heart  would  see 
God  shining  out  again. 

There  are  who  hold  high  festival 
And  at  the  board  crown  Death  : 

I  am  too  weak  to  live  at  all, 
Except  I  breathe  thy  breath. 

Show  me  a  love  that  nothing  bates, 

Absolute,  self-severe. 
And  at  Gehenna's  prayerless  gates 

"I  cannot  taint  with  fear." 


THE   DISCirLE. 


XXIV. 


I  cannot  brook  that  men  should  say, 
Nor  this  for  gospel  take, — 

That  thou  wilt  hear  me  if  I  pray. 
Asking  for  Jesus'  sake. 

For  love  to  Him  is  not  to  me, 

And  cannot  lift  my  fate  ; 
The  love  is  not  that  is  not  free, 

Perfect,  immediate. 

Love  is  salvation:  life  without 

No  moment  can  endure. 
Those  sheep  alone  go  in  and  out. 

Who  know  thy  love  is  pure. 


XXV. 

But  what  if  God  requires  indeed, 
For  cause  yet  unrevealed. 

Assent  to  moulded  form  of  creed. 
Such  as  I  cannot  yield  ? 


124  THE   DISCIPLE. 

The  words  may  have  some  other  sense, 

Or  we  be  different 
From  what  we  seem  when  thought  intense 

Is  only  one  way  bent. 

Or  what  if  all-distorting  pride 
Shows  me  the  good  thing  ill  ? 

For  man,  they  say,  hath  God  defied, 
And  walks  with  stubborn  will. 

Or  God  may  choose  to  give  a  test, 

And  try  the  earnest  aim, 
That  only  he  may  win  the  best. 

Who  conquers  pride  and  shame. 

And  yet  the  words  I  cannot  say  , 

With  the  responding  folk ; 
I  at  his  feet  a  heart  would  lay. 

Not  shoulders  for  the  yoke. 

*'  And  wilt  thou  bargain  then  with  Him  ? " 
Some  priest  will  make  reply. 

I  answer:  "Though  the  sky  be  dim, 
My  hope  is  in  the  sky." 


THE  DISCIPLE.  12$ 


XXVI. 


But  is  my  will  alive,  awake? 

The  one  God  will  not  heed, 
If  in  my  lips  or  hands  I  take 

A  half  word  or  half  deed. 

Day  after  day  I  sit  and  dream, 

Amazed  in  outwardness  ; 
The  powers  of  things  that  only  seem 

The  things  that  are  oppress  ; 

Till  in  my  soul  some  discord  sounds, 
Till  sinks  some  yawning  lack  : 

I  turn  me  from  life's  rippling  rounds. 
And  unto  thee  come  back. 

Thou  seest  how  poor  a  thing  am  I  ; 

Yet  hear,  whate'er  I   be  ; 
Despairing  of  my  will,  I  cry, 

Be  God  enough  to  me. 

My  being  low,  irresolute, 
I  cast  before  thy  feet  ; 


126  THE   DISCIPLE. 

iVnd  waitj  while  even  prayer  is  mute, 
For  what  thou  judgest  meet. 


XXVI  I. 

My  safety  lies  not,  any  hour. 

In  what  I  generate, 
But  in  the  living,  healing  power 

Of  that  which  doth  create. 

If  He  is  God  to  the  incomplete, 

Fulfilling  lack  and  need, 
Then  I  may  cast  before  his  feet 

A  half  word  or  half  deed. 

I  bring,  Lord,  to  thy  altar-stair. 

To  thee,  love-glorious, 
My  very  lack  of  will  and  prayer, 

Crying,  Thou  seest  me  thus. 

From  some  old  well  of  life  thsy  flow  ! 

The  words  my  being  fill !  — 
'^  Of  me  that  man  the  truth  shall  know 

Who  wills  the  Father's  will." 


THE   DISCIPLE.  12/ 


XXVIIL 


What  is  his  will  ?  —  that  I  may  go 

And  do  it  in  the  hope 
That  light  will  rise  and  spread  and  grow, 

As  deed  enlarges  scope. 

I  need  not  search  the  sacred  book 

To  find  my  duty  clear ; 
Scarce  in  my  bosom  need  I  look, 

It  lies  so  very  near. 

Henceforward  I  must  watch  the  door 

Of  word  and  action  too  ; 
There  's  one  thing  I  must  do  no  more, 

Another  I  must  do. 

Alas,  these  are  such   little  things! 

No  glory  in  their  birth  ! 
Doubt  from   their  common  aspect  springs. 

If  God  will  count  them  worth. 

But  here   I  am   not  left  to  choose. 
My  duty  is  my  lot; 


128  THE   DISCIPLE. 

And  weighty  things  will  glory  lose, 
If  small  ones   are  forgot. 


I   am  not   worthy  high  things  yet ; 

I'll  humbly  do  my  own  ; 
Good  care  of  sheep  may  so  beget 

A  fitness  for  the  throne. 

Ah  fool !  why  dost  thou  reason  thus  ? 

Ambition's  very  fool ! 
Through  high  and  low,  each  glorious, 

Shines  God's  all-perfect  rule. 

'Tis  God  I  need,  not  rank  in  good  ; 

'Tis  Life,  not  honor's  meed  ; 
With  Him  to  fill  my  every  mood, 

I  am  content   indeed. 


XXIX. 

Will  do:  shall  know:  I  feel  the  force. 

The  fullness  of  the  word  ; 
His  holy  boldness  held  its  course, 

Claiming  divine  accord. 


THE  DISCIPLE.  1 29 

What  if,  as  yet,  I  have  never  seen 

The  true  face  of  the  Man  ? 
The  named  notion  may  have  been 

A  likeness  vague  and  wanj 

Or  bright  with  such  unblended  hues 

As  on  his  chamber  wall 
The  humble  peasant  gladly  views, 

And  Jesus  Christ  doth  call. 

The  story  I  did  never  scan 

With  vision  calm  and  strong ; 
Have  never  tried  to  see  the  Man, 

The  many  words  among. 

Some  faces  that  would  never  please 

With  any  sweet  surprise. 
Gain  on  the  heart  by  slow  degrees 

Until  they  feast  the  eyes  ; 

And  if  I  ponder,  day  by  day. 
Over  the  storied  place, 
9 


130  THE   DISCIPLE. 

Through  mists  that  slowly  melt  away 
May  dawn  a  human  face. 

A  face  !     What  face  ?     Exalting  thought 
That  face  may  dawn  on  me 

Which  Moses  on  the  mountain  sought, 
God  would  not  let  him  see. 


XXX. 

±  read  and  read  the  ancient  tale. 

A  gr..cicus  form  I  mark  ; 
But  dim  and  faint  a:-,  v  rapt  in  veil 

Of  Sinai's  cloudy  dark. 

I  see  a  simple,  truthful  man, 
Who  walks  the  earth  erect, 

Nor  stoops  his  noble  head  to  one 
From  fear  or  false  respect. 

He  seeks  to  climb  no  high  estate, 

No  low  consent  secure. 
With  high  and  low  serenely  great, 

Because  his  ends  are  pure  ; 


THE   DISCIPLE.  I3I 

Nor  walks  alone,  beyond  our  reach, 

Our  joy  and  grief  beyond  : 
He  counts  it  joy  divine  to  teach, 

When  human   hearts  respond  ; 

And  grief  divine  oft  woke  in  Him 

O'er  souls  that  lay  and  slept: 
"  How  often,  O  Jerusalem  !  " 

He  said,  and  gazed,  and  wept. 

Hid  in  his  heart,  some  spring  of  grace 
Flowed  silent  through  the  din  ; 

The  sorrow-cloud  upon  his  face, 
Was    lighted  from  within. 

Love  was  his  very  being's  root, 

And  healing  was  its  flower  ; 
Love  only,  root  and  flower  and  fruit, — 

Beginning,  end,  and  power. 

O  Life  of  Jesus— the  unseen. 

Which  found  such  glorious  show  — 

Deeper  than  death,  and  more  serene  ! 
How  poor  am  I  !  how  low  ! 


132  THE   DISCIPLE. 


XXXI. 


As  in  a  living  well    I  gaze, 
Kneeling  upon  its  brink. 

What  are  the  very  words  He  sa3s.? 
"VVliat  did  the  one  man  think  ? 

I  find  his  heart  was  all  above ; 

Obedience  his  one  thought ; 
Reposing  in  his  Father's  love, 

His  will  alone  He  sought. 


XXXII. 

Years   have  passed  o'er  my  broken  plan 

To  picture  out  a  strife 
Where  ancient  Death,  in  horror  wan, 

Faced  young  and  fearing  Life. 

More  of  the  tale  I  tell  not  so  — 

But  for  myself  would  say : 
My  heart  is  quiet  with  wliat  I  know, 

With  what  I  hope,  is  gay. 


THE   DISCIPLE.  1 33 

And  where  I  cannot  set  my  faith, 

Unknowing  or  unwise^ 
I  say,  "  If  this  be  what  He  saith, 

Here  hidden  treasure  lies." 

Through  years  gone  by  since  thus  I  strove, 

Thus  shadowed  out  my  strife, 
While  at  my  history  I  wove, 

Thou  didst  weave  in  the  life. 

Through  poverty  that  had  no  lack, 

For  friends  divinely  good  ; 
Through  pain  that  not  too  long  did  rack ; 

Through  love  that  understood  ; 

Through  light  that  taught  me  what  to  hold. 

And  what  to  cast  away ; 
Through  thy  forgiveness  manifold. 

And  things  I  cannot  say. 

Here  thou  hast  brought  me  —  able  now 

To  kiss  thy  garment's  hem, 
Entirely  to  thy  will  to  bow, 

And  trust  thee  even  for  them. 


134  THE   DISCIPLE. 

Who,  lost  in  darkness,  in  the  mire, 

Willi  ill-contented  feet, 
Walk  trailing  loose  their  white  attire, 

For  the  sapphire-floor  unmeet. 

Lord  Jesus  Christ,  I  know  not  how  — • 

With  this  blue  air,  blue  sea. 
This  yellow  sand,  that  grassy  brow, 

All  isolating  me  — 

My  words  to  thy  heart  should  draw  near^ 
My  thoughts  be  heard  by  thee  ; 

But  He  who  made  the  ear  must  hear. 
Who  made  the  eye,  must  see. 

Thou  mad'st  the  hand  with  which  I  write, 

That  sun  descending  slow 
Through  rosy  gates,  that  purple  light 

On  waves  that  shoreward  go, 

Bowing  their  heads  in  golden  spray. 

As  if  thy  foot  were  near  : 
I  think  I  know  thee.  Lord,  to-day, 

Have  known  thee  many  a  year. 


THE  DISCIPLE.  135 

I  know  thy  Father  —  thine  and  mine  — 

Thus  thy  great  word  doth  go  : 
If  thy  great  word  the  words  combine, 

I  will  not  say  Not  so. 

Lord,  thou  hast  much  to  make  me  yet,  — 

A  feeble  infant  still: 
Thy  thoughts,  Lord,  in  my  bosom  set, 

Fulfill  me  of  thy  will, 

Even  of  thy  truth,  both  in  and  out. 

That  so  I  question  free: 
The  man  that  feareth,  Lord,   to  doubt, 

In  that  fear  doubteth  thee. 


THE    GOSPEL    WOMEN. 


THE    GOSPEL   WOMEN. 


I. 

THE   MOTHER   MARY. 

I. 

1%   /TARY,  to  thee  the  heart  was  given 

For  infant  hand  to  hold, 
I'hus  clasping,  an  eternal  heaven, 
The  great  earth  in  its  fold. 

He  seized  the  world  with  tender  might 

By  making  thee  his  own  ; 
Thee,  lowly  queen,  whose  heavenly  height 

Was  to  thyself  unknown. 

He  came,  all  helpless,  to  thy  power, 
For  warmth,  and  love,  and  birth  ; 

In  thy  embraces,  every  hour, 
He  grew  into  the  earth. 


140  IRE  GOSPEL   WOMEN. 

And  thine  the  grief,  O  mother  high, 

Which  all  thy  sisters  share, 
Who  keep  the  gate  betwixt  the  sky 

And  this  our  lower  air ; 

And  unshared  sorrows,  gathering  slow ; 

New  thoughts  within  thy  heart, 
Which  through  thee  like  a  sword  will  go, 

And  make  thee  mourn  apart. 

For,  if  a  woman  bore  a  son 

That  was  of  angel  brood, 
Who  lifted  wings  ere  day  was  done, 

And  soared  from  where  he  stood  ; 

Strange  grief  would  fill  each  mother- moan, 
Wild  longing,  dim,  and  sore : 

"  My  child !  my  child  !  he  is  my  own, 
And  yet  is  mine  no  more !  " 

So  thou,  O  Mary,  years  on  years. 
From  child-birth  to  the  cross, 

Wast  filled  with  yearnings,  filled  with  fears. 
Keen  sense  of  love  and  loss. 


THE  MOTHER  MARY.  I4I 

His  childish  thoughts  outsoared  thy  reach  ; 

Even  his  tenderness 
Had  deeper  springs  than  act  or  speech 

Could  unto  thee  express. 

Strange  pangs  await  thee,  mother  mild! 
•    A  sorer  travail-pain, 
Before  the  spirit  of  thy  child 
Is  born  in  thee  again. 

And  thou  wilt  still  forbode  and  dread, 

And  loss  be  still  thy  fear, 
Till  form  be  gone,  and,  in  its  stead, 

The  very  self  appear. 

For,  when  thy  son  hath  reached  his  goal. 

And  vanished  from  the  earth, 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  Him  in  thy  soul, 

A  second,  holier  birth. 

II. 

Ah,  there  He  stands  !     With  wondering  face 
Old  men  surround  the  boy  ; 


142  THE   GOSPEL   WOMEN. 

The  solemn    looks,  the  awful  place 
Bestill  the  mother's  joy. 

In  sweet  reproach  her  joy  is  hid  ; 

Her  trembling  voice  is  low, 
Less  like  the  chiding  than  the  chid  : 

"  How  couldst  thou  leave  us  so  ? " 

But  will  her  dear  heart  understand 
The  answer  that  He  gives  — 

Childlike,  eternal,  simple,  grand, 
The  law  by  which  He  lives  ? 

"  Why  sought  ye  me  ?  "     Ah,  mother  dear  ! 

The  gulf  already  opes 
That  soon  will  keep  thee  to  thy  fear. 

And  part  thee  from  thy  hopes. 

"  My  Father's  business  —  that  ye  know, 

I  cannot  choose  but  do." 
Mother,  if  He  that  work  forego. 

Not  long  He  cares  for  you. 


THE   MOTHER   MARY.  143 

Creation's  harder,  better  part 

Is  in  his  wilUng  hand  ; 
I  marvel  not  the  mother's  heart 

Not  yet  could  understand. 


in. 

The  Lord  of  life  among  them  rests  ; 

They  quaff  the  merry  wine  ; 
They  do  not  know,  those  wedding  guests, 

The  present  power  divine. 

Believe,  on  such  a  group  He  smiled. 
Though  He  might  sigh  the  while  ; 

Believe  not,  sweet-souled  Mary's  child 
Was  born  without  a  smile. 

He  saw  the  pitchers  high  upturned, 
The  last  red  drops  to  pour  ; 

His  mother's  cheek  with  triumph  burned, 
And  expectation  wore. 

He  knew  the  prayer  her  bosom  housed  ; 
He  read  it  in  her  eyes  ; 


144  THE   GOSPEL   WOMEN. 

Her  hopes  in  Him  sad  thoughts  have  roused, 
Before  her  words  arise. 


"They  have  no  wine,"  her  shy  lips   said, 
With  prayer  but  half  begun ; 

Her  eyes  went  on,  "  Lift  up  thy  head, 
Show  what  thou  art,  my  son ! " 

A  vision  rose  before  his  eyes, 
The  cross,  the  waiting  tomb, 

The  people's  rage,  the  darkened  skies, 
His  unavoided  doom. 

"  Ah  woman-heart !  what  end  is  set 

Common  to  thee  and  me  ? 
My  hour  of  honor  is  not  yet, — 

'Twill  come  too  soon  for  thee." 

The  word  was  dark  ;   the  tone  was  kind  : 

His  heart  the  mother  knew  ; 
And  still  his  eyes  more  sweetly  shined. 

His  voice  more  gentle  grew. 


THE   MOTHER  MARY.  I45 

Another,  on  the  word  intent, 

Had  heard  refusal  there  ; 
His  mother  heard  a  full  consent, 

A  sweetly  answered  prayer. 

"  Whate'er  He  saith  unto  you,  do." 

Fast  flowed  the  grapes  divine  ; 
Though  then,  as  now,  not  many  knew 

Who  made  the  water  wine. 

IV. 

"  He  is  beside  himself."     Dismayed, 

His  mother,  brothers  talked  : 
"  He  from  the  well-known  path  has  strayed. 

In  which  our  fathers  walked." 

And  sad  at  heart,  they  sought  Him.     Loud 

Some  one  the  message  bore  ; 
He  stands  within,  amidst  a  crowd. 

They  at  the  open  door. 

"Thy  mother  and  thy  brothers  would 
Speak  with  thee.     Lo,  they  stand 
10 


146  THE   GOSPEL   WOMEN. 

Without  and  wait  thee  !  "     Like  a  flood 
Of  sunrise  on  the  land, 

A  new-born  light  his  face  o'erspread  ; 

Out  from  his  eyes  it  poured  ; 
He  lifted  up  that  gracious  head, 

Looked  round  him,  took  the  word  : 

"  My  mother  —  brothers  —  who  are  they  ?  " 

Hearest  thou,  Mary  mild  ? 
This  is  a  sword  that  well   may  slay,  — 

Disowned  by  thy  child  ! 

Ah,  no  !     My  brothers,  sisters,  hear  ! 

What  says  our  humble  Lord  ? 
O  mother,  did  it  wound  thy  ear? 

We  thank  Him  for  the  word. 

"  Who  are  my  friends  ?  "     O  !   hear  Him  say, 

Stretching  his  hand  abroad  : 
"  My  mother,  sisters,  brothers,  they 

Who  do  the  will  of  God." 


THE  MOTHER  MARY.  147 

My  brother!  Lord  of  life  and  me, 

If  it  might  come  to  this  ! 
Ah  !  brother,  sister,  that  would  be 

Enough  for  all  amiss. 

Yea,  hear  Him,  mother,  and   rejoice : 

No  better  name  hath   He, 
To  give  as  best  of  all  his  choice, 

Than  that  He  gives  to  thee. 

O  humble  child,  O  faithful  son  ! 

Of  women  most  forlorn. 
She  who  the  Father's  will  hath  done, 

The  Son  of  Man  hath  borne. 

Mary,  if  in  thy  coming  pain, 

Thou  to  thy  Father  bow. 
The  Christ  shall  be  thy  son  again, 

And  twice  his  mother  thou. 


Life's  best  things  crowd  around  its  close, 
To  light  it  from  the  door  ; 


148  THE   GOSPEL   WOMEN. 

When  woman's  aid  no  further  goes, 
She  weeps  and  loves  the  more. 

Oft,  oft,  she  doubted,  in  his  life, 

And  feared  his  mission's  loss  ; 
But  now  she  shares  the  losing  strife, 

And  weeps  beside  the  cross. 

The  dreaded  hour  is  come  at  last ; 

The  sword  has  reached  her  soul ; 
The  hour  of  timid  hope  is  past. 

Unveiled  the  awful  whole. 

There  hangs  the  son  her  body  bore. 

Who  in  her  arms  did  rest ; 
Those  limbs  the  nails  and  hammer  tore 

Have  lain  upon  her  breast. 

He  speaks.     With  torturing  joy  the  sounds 

Invade  her  desolate  ear  ; 
The  mother's  heart,  though  bleeding,  bounds 

Her  dying  son  to  hear. 


THE   MOTHER   MARY.  149 

"  Woman,  behold  thy  son.  —  Behold 

Thy  mother."     Best  relief  — 
That  woeful  love  in  hers  to  fold 

Which  next  to  hers  was  chief ! 

Another  son,  but  not  instead, 

He  gave,  lest  grief  should  kill. 
While  he  was  down  among  the  dead, 

Doing  his  Father's  will. 

No,  not  instead ;    the  coming  grace 

Shall  make  Him  hers  anew  — 
More  hers  than  when,  in  her  embrace, 

His  life  from  hers  he  drew. 


II. 

THE   WOMAN   THAT   LIFTED   UP   HER   VOICE. 
Filled  with  his  words  of  truth  and  right, 

Her  heart  will  break  or  cry  : 
A  woman's  cry  bursts  forth  in    might 
Of  loving  agony. 


150  THE   GOSPEL   WOMEN. 

"  Blessed  the  womb,  thee,  Lord,  that  bare  ! 

The  bosom  that  thee  fed  !  " 
A  moment's  silence  filled  the  air, 

When  she  the  word  had  said. 

He  turns  his  face  to  meet  the  cry ; 

He  knows  from  whence  it  springs  — 
A  woman's  heart  that  glad  would  die 

For  woman's  best  of  things. 

Such  son  to  bear,  such  son  to  rear, 

The  generations  laud. 
"  Yea,  rather,  blessed  they  that  hear 
And  keep  the  word  of  God." 

The  tone  was  love  and  not  rebuke ; 

But,  'mid  the  murmured  stir. 
She,  sure,  was  silent  in  her  nook  ; 

No  answer  came  from  her. 


THE 


MOTHER  OF   ZEBEDEE'S   CHILDREN.     15I 


III. 

THE  MOTHER  OF  ZEBEDEE'S  CHILDREN. 
She  knelt,  she  bore  a  bold  request, 

Though  shy  to  speak  it  out ; 
Ambition,  even  in  mother's  breast, 
Before  Him  stood  in  doubt. 

'^What  is  it?"  — "These  my  sons,  allow 
To  sit  on  thy  right  hand 
And  on  thy  left,  O  Lord,  when  thou 
Art  ruler  in  the  land." 

«Ye  know  not  what  ye  ask."     There  lay 
A  baptism  and  a  cup 
They  understood  not,  in  the  way 
By  which  He  must  go  up. 

She  would  have  had  them  lifted  high 

Above  their  fellow-men  ; 
Sharing  their  pride  with  mother-eye,— 

Had  been  blest  mother  then. 


152  THE   GOSPEL   WOMEN. 

But  would  she  praise  for  granted  quest, 
Counting  her  prayer  well  heard, 

If  of  the  three  on  Calvary's  crest 
They  shared  the  first  and  third  ? 

She  knoweth  neither  way  nor  end  ; 

There  comes  a  dark  despair. 
When  she  will  doubt  if  this  great  friend 

Can  answer  any  prayer. 

Yet  higher  than  her  love  can  dare, 
His  love  her  sons  will  set : 

They  shall  his  cup  and  baptism  share. 
And  share  his  kingdom  yet. 

They,  entering  at  his  palace-door, 

Shall  shun  the  lofty  seat  ; 
Shall  gird  themselves,  and  water  pour, 

And  wash  each  other's  feet. 

For  in  thy  kingdom,  lowly  Lord, 
Who  sit  with  thee  on  high 

Are  those  who  tenderest  help  afford 
In  most  humility. 


THE   SYRO-PHGENICIAN   WOMAN.  1 53 

IV. 

THE   SYRO-PHCENICIAN   WOMAN. 
"  Grant,  Lord,  her  prayer,  and  let  her  go  ; 

She  crieth  after  us." 
Nay,  to  the  dogs  ye  cast  it  so  ; 

Serve  not  a  woman  thus. 

Their  pride,  by  condescension  fed, 

He  speaks  with  truer  tongue  : 
"  It  is  not  meet  the  children's  bread 

Should  to  the  dogs  be  flung." 

The  words,  because  they  were  so  sore, 

His  tender  voice  did  rue  ; 
His  face  a  gentle  sadness  wore. 

And  showed  he  suffered  too. 

He  makes  her  share  the  hurt  of  good. 

Takes  what  she  would  have  lent. 
That  those  proud  men  their  evil  mood 

May  see,  and  so  repent ; 


154  THE   GOSPEL   WOMEN. 

And  that  the  hidden  faith  in  her 

May  burst  in  soaring  flame, 
From  childhood  deeper,  hoHer, 

If  birthright  not  the  same. 

"  Truth,  Lord  j    and  yet  the  dogs  that  crawl 

Under  the  table,  eat 
The  crumbs  the  little  ones  let  fall  — 

And  that  is  not  unmeet." 

Ill  names,  of  proud  religion  born  — 
She'll  wear  the  worst  that  comes ; 

Will  clothe  her,  patient,  in  their  scorn, 
To  share  the  healing  crumbs. 

The  cry  rebuff  could  not  abate 

Was  not  like  water  spilt : 
"  O  woman,  but  thy  faith  is  great ! 

Be  it  even  as  thou  wilt." 

O,  happy  she  who  will  not  tire, 

But,  baffled,  prayeth  still ! 
What  if  He  grant  her  heart's  desire 

In  fullness  of  /ler  will ! 


TPIE  WIDOW   OF  NAIN.  1 55 


V. 

THE  WIDOW  OF  NAIN. 
Forth  from  the  city,  with  the  load 

That  makes  the  trampling  low, 
They  walk  along  the  dreary  road 

That  dust  and  ashes  go. 

The  other  way,  towards  the  gate, 
Their  footsteps  light  and  loud, 

A  living  man,  in  humble  state, 
Brings  on  another  crowd. 

Nearer  and  nearer  come  the  twain  ; 

He  hears  the  wailing  cry: 
How  can  the  Life  let  such  a  train 

Of  death  and  tears  go  by  ? 

"  Weep  not,"  He  said,  and  touched  the  bier ; 

They  stand,  the  dead  who  bear  j 
The  mother  knows  nor  hope  nor  fear, 

He  waits  not  for  her  prayer. 


156  THE   GOSPEL   WOMEN. 

"  Young  man,  I  say  to  thee,  arise." 

Who  hears,  he  must  obey ; 
Up  starts  the  form ;  wide  flash  the  eyes 

With  wonder  and  dismay. 

The  lips  would  speak,  as  if  they  caught 

Some  converse  sudden  broke, 
When  the  great  word  the  dead  man  sought, 

And  Hades'  silence  woke. 

The  lips  would  speak  :  the  eyes'  wild  stare 

Gives  place  to  ordered  sight ; 
The  murmur  dies  upon  the  air  — 

The  soul  is  dumb  with  light. 

He  bring  no  news ;  he  has  forgot, 

Or  saw  with  vision  weak : 
Thou  seest  all  our  unseen  lot. 

And  yet  thou  dost  not  speak. 

Keep'st  thou  the  news,  as  parent  might 

A  too  good  gift,  away. 
Lest  we  should  neither  sleep  at    night, 

Nor  do  our  work  by  day  ? 


THE   WIDOW   OF   NAIN.  1 5/ 

His  mother  has  not  left  a  trace 

Of  triumph  over  grief; 
Her  tears  alone  have  found  a  place 

Upon  the  holy  leaf. 

If  gratitude  our  speech  benumb, 

And  joy  our  laughter  quell, 
May  not  Eternity  be  dumb 

For  things  too  good  to  tell  ? 

While  her  glad  arms  the  lost  one  hold, 

Question  she  asketh  none ; 
She  trusts  for  all  he  leaves  untold  ; 

Enough,  to  clasp  her  son. 

The  ebbing  tide  is  caught  and  won  — 

Borne  flowing  to  the  gate  ; 
Death  turns  him  backward  to  the  sun, 

And  Life  is  yet  our  fate. 


158  THE   GOSPEL   WOMEN. 

VI. 

THE  WOMAN   WHOM   SATAN  HAD    BOUND. 

For  eighteen  years,  she,  patient  soul, 
Her  eyes  hath  graveward  sent; 

All  vain  for  her  the  starry  pole, 
She  is  so  bowed  and  bent. 

What  mighty  words  !     Who  can  be  near  ? 

What  tenderness  of  hands  ! 
O  !  is  it  strength,  or  fancy  mere  ? 

New  hope,  or  breaking  bands? 

The  pent  life  rushes  swift  along 

Channels  it  used  to  know  ; 
And  ujD,  amidst  the  wondering  throng, 

She  rises  firm  and  slow  — 

To  bend  again  in  grateful  awe  — 
Will,  power  no  more  at  strife  — 

In  homage  to  the  living  Law 
Who  gives  her  back  her  life. 


THE   WOMAN   WHOM   SATAN   HAD   BOUND.     159 

Uplifter  of  the  drooping  head ! 

Unbinder  of  the  bound ! 
Thou  seest  our  sore-burdened 

Bend  hopeless  to  the  ground. 

What  if  they  see  thee  not,  nor  cry  — 

Thou  watchest  for  the  hour 
To  raise  the  forward-beaming  eye, 

To  wake  the  slumbering  power. 

I  see  thee  wipe  the  stains  of  time 

From  off  the  withered  face ; 
Lift  up  thy  bowed  old  men,  in  prime 

Of  youthful  manhood's  grace. 


Like  summer  days  from  winter's  tomb. 

Arise  thy  women  fair; 
Old  age,  a  shadow,  not  a  doom, 

Lo !  is  not  anywhere. 

All  ills  of  life  shall  melt  away 

As  melts  a  cureless  woe, 
When,  by  the  dawning  of  the  day 

Surprised,  the  dream  must  go. 


l60  THE  GOSPEL   WOMEN. 

I  think  thou,  Lord,  wilt  heal  me  too. 

Whate'er  the  needful  cure  ; 
The  great  best  only  thou  wilt  do, 

And  hoping  I  endure. 


VII. 

THE   WOMAN   WHO   CAME  BEHIND   HIM   IN  THE 
CROWD. 

Near  Him  she  stole,  rank  after  rank ; 

She  feared  approach  too  loud ; 
She  touched  his  garment's  hem,  and  shrank 

Back  in  the  sheltering   crowd. 

A  shame-faced  gladness  thrills  her  frame  : 
Her  twelve  years'  fainting  prayer 

Is  heard  at  last;  she  is  the  same 
As  other  women  there. 

She  hears  his  voice.     He  looks  about. 

Ah !  is  it  kind  or  good 
To  drag  her  secret  sorrow  out 

Before  that  multitude? 


THE   WIDOW    WITH   THE   TWO   MITES.     l6l 

The  eyes  of  men  she  dares  not  meet  — 

On  her  they  straight  must  fall : 
Forward  she  sped,  and  at  his  feet 

Fell  down,  and  told  Him  all. 

His  presence  makes  a  holy  place ; 

No  alien  eyes  are  there  ; 
Her  shrinking  shame  finds  godlike  grace 

The  covert  of  its  care. 

"  Daughter,"  he  said,  "  be  of  good  cheer ; 

Thy  faith  hath  made  thee  whole." 
With  plenteous  love,  not  healing  mere, 

He  would  content  her  soul. 


VIH. 

THE   WIDOW   WITH    THE   TWO    MITES. 
Here  muc/i  and  /iU/e  shift  and  change, 

With  scale  of  need  and  time  ; 
There  7/iore  and  /ess  have  meanings  strange. 
Nor  with  our  reason  rhyme. 
II 


l62  THE   GOSPEL  WOMEN. 

Sickness  may  be  more  hale  than  health, 
And  service  kingdom  high  ; 

Yea,  poverty  be  bounty's  wealth, 
To  give  like  God  thereby. 

Bring  forth  your  riches ;  let  them  go. 
Nor  mourn  the  lost  control  j 

For  if  ye  hoard  them,  surely  so 
Their  rust  will  reach  your   soul. 

Cast  in  your  coins,  for  God  delights 
When  from  wide  hands  they  fall ; 

But  here  is  one  who  brings  two  mites, 
And  yet  gives  more  than  all. 

She  heard  not,  she,  the  mighty  praise; 

Went  home  to  care  and  need ; 
Perhaps  the  knowledge  still  delays, 

And  yet  she  has  the  meed. 


PILATE'S   WIFE.  163 

IX. 

THE   WOMEN  WHO   MINISTERED   UNTO   HIM. 

Enough  He  labors  for  his  hire  ; 

Yea,  nought  can  pay  his  pain  : 
But  powers  that  wear,  and  waste,  and  tire, 

Need  strength  to  toil  again. 

They  give  Him  freely  all  they  can  ; 

They  give  Him  clothes  and  food  ; 
In  this  rejoicing,  that  the  man 

Is  not  ashamed  they  should. 

High  love  takes  form  in  lowly  thing ; 

He  knows  the  offering    such  ; 
To  them  'tis  little  that  they  bring, 

To  Him  'tis  very  much. 


X. 

PILATE'S    WIFE. 
Why  came  in  dreams  the  low-born  man 
Between  thee    and  thy  rest; 


l64  THE   GOSPEL   WOMEN. 

For  vain  thy  whispered  message  ran, 
Though  justice  was  thy  quest? 

Did  some  young  ignorant  angel  dare  — 
Not  knowing  what  must  be, 

Or  blind  with  agony  of  care  — 
To  fly  for  help  to  thee  ? 

It  may  be.     Rather  I  believe, 
Thou,  nobler  than  thy  spouse. 

The  rumored  grandeur  didst  receive. 
And  sit  with  pondering  brows, 

Until  thy  maidens'  gathered  tale 

With  possible  marvel  teems  : 
.Thou  sleepest,  and  the  prisoner  pale 
Returneth  in  thy  dreams. 

Well  mightst  thou  suffer  things  not  few 
For  his  sake  all  the  night ! 

In  pale  eclipse  He  suffers,  who 
Is  of  the  world  the  li2:ht. 


THE   WOMAN   OF   SAMARIA.  165 

Precious  it  were  to  know  thy  dream 

Of  such  a  one  as  He  ! 
Perhaps  of  Him  we,  waking,  deem 

As  poor  a  verity. 

XI. 

THE   WOMAN   OF   SAMARIA. 
In  the  hot  noon,  for  water  cool, 

She  strayed  in  listless  mood  : 
When  back  she  ran,  her  pitcher  full 

Forgot  behind  her  stood. 

Like  one  who  followed  straying  sheep, 

A  weary  man  she  saw, 
Who  sat  upon  the  well  so  deep. 

And  nothing  had  to  draw. 

"  Give  me  to  drink,"  He  said.     Her  hand 

Was  ready  with  reply; 
From  out  the  old  well  of  the  land 

She  drew  Him  plenteously. 


1 66  THE   GOSPEL   WOMEN. 

He  spake  as  never  man  before  j 
She  stands  with  open  ears ; 

He  spake  of  holy  days  in  store, 
Laid  bare  the  vanished  years. 

She  cannot  still  her  throbbing  heart ; 

She  hurries  to  the  town, 
And  cries  aloud  in  street  and  mart, 

"  The  Lord  is  here  :    come  down." 

Her  life  before  was  strange  and  sad, 
Its  tale  a  dreary  sound : 

Ah  !    let  it  go  —  or  good  or  bad. 
She  has  the  Master  found. 


XII. 

MARY   MAGDALENE. 

With  eyes  aglow,  and  aimless  zeal, 
She  hither,  thither,  goes  ; 

Her  speech,  her  motions,  all  reveal 
A  mind  without  repose. 


MARY    MAGDALENE.  167 

She  climbs  the  hills,  she  haunts  the  sea, 

By  madness  tortured,  driven  ; 
One  hour's  forgetfulness  would  be 

A  gift  from  very  Heaven. 

The  night  brings  sleep,  sleep  new  distress  ; 

The  anguish  of  the  day 
Returns  as  free,  in  darker  dress, 

In  more  secure  dismay. 

The  demons  blast  her  to  and  fro ; 

She  has  no  quiet  place ; 
Enough  a  woman  still  to  know 

A  haunting  dim  disgrace. 

Hers  in  no  other  eyes  confide 

For  even  a  moment  brief; 
With  restless  glance  they  turn  aside, 

Lest  they  betray  her  grief. 

A  human  touch !  a  pang  of  death ! 

And  in  a  low  delight 
Thou  liest,  waiting  for  new  breath, 

For  mornino:  out  of  night. 


1 68  THE  GOSPEL  WOMEN. 

Thou  risest  up;  the  earth  is  fair, 
The  wind  is  cool  and  free  ; 

Is  it  a  dream  of  hell's  despair 
Dissolves  in  ecstasy? 

Did  this  man  touch  thee?     Eyes  divine 
Make  sunrise  in  thy  soul ; 

Thou  seest  love  and  order  shine: 
His  health  hath  made  thee  whole. 

What  matter  that  the  coming  time 
Will  stain  thy  virgin  name ! 

Will  call  thine  agony  thy  crime, 
And  count  thy  madness  blame  ! 

Let  the  reproach  of  men  abide ! 

He  shall  be  well  content 
To  see  not  seldom  by  his  side 

Thy  head  serenely  bent. 

Thou,  sharing  in  the  awful  doom, 
Shalt  help  thy  Lord  to  die  ; 

And,  mourning  o'er  his  empty  tomb, 
First  share  his  victory. 


THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   TEMPLE.  169 


XIII. 

THE   WOMAN   IN  THE   TEMPLE. 
A  still  dark  joy  !     A  sudden  face  ! 

Cold  daylight,  footsteps,  cries ! 
The  temple's  naked,  shining  space, 

Aglare  with  judging  eyes ! 

All  in  abandoned  guilty  hair, 

With  terror-pallid  lips. 
To  vulgar  scorn  her  honor  bare, 

To  vulgar  taunts  and  quips. 

Her  eyes  she  fixes  on  the  ground, 
Her  shrinking  soul  to  hide  ; 

Lest,  at  uncurtained  windows  found. 
Its  shame  be  clear  descried. 

All-idle  hang  her  listless  hands. 
And  tingle  with  the  shame  ; 

She  sees  not  who  beside  her  stands, 
She  is  so  bowed  with  blame. 


I/O  THE   GOSPEL   WOMEN. 

He  stoops,  He  writes  upon  the  ground, 
Regards  nor  priests  nor  wife ; 

An  awful  silence  spreads  around, 
And  wakes  an  inward  strife. 

Is  it  a  voice  that  speaks  for  thee? 

Almost  she  hears  aghast : 
"  Let  him  who  from  this  sin  is  free. 

At  her  the  first  stone  cast." 

Astonished,  waking,  growing  sad. 
Her  eyes  bewildered  rose ; 

She  saw  the  one  true  friend  she  had. 
Who  loves  her  though  He  knows. 

Upon  her  deathlike,  ashy  face. 
The  blushes  rise  and  spread : 

No  greater  wonder  sure  had  place 
When  Lazarus  left  the  dead  ! 

He  stoops.  In  every  charnel  breast 
Dead  conscience  rises  slow : 

They,  dumb  before  that  awful  guest, 
Turn,  one  by  one,  and  go. 


THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   TEMPLE.  I /I 

Alone  with  Him  !     Yet  no  new  dread 

Invades  the  silence  round ; 
False  pride,  false  shame,  all  false  is  dead ; 

She  has  the  Master  found. 

Who  else  had  spoken  on  her  side, 

Those  cruel  men  withstood  ? 
From  Him  even  shame  she  would  not  hide  ; 

For  Him  she  will  be  good. 

He  rises  —  sees  the  temple  bare  ; 

'  They  two  are  left  alone. 
He  turns  and  asks  her,    "Woman,  where 
Are  thine  accusers  gone? 

"  Hath  none  condemned  thee  ?  "  —  "  Master,  no," 

She  answers,  trembling  sore. 
"  Neither  do  I  condemn  thee.     Go, 

And  sin  not  any  more." 

She  turned  and  went.     To  hope  and  grieve  ? 

Be  what  she  had  not  been  t 
We  are  not  told;  but  I  believe 

His  kindness  made  her  clean. 


172  THE   GOSPEL   WOMEN. 

Our  sins  to  thee  us  captive  hale  — 

Offenses,  hatreds    dire ; 
Weak  loves  that  selfish  grow,  and  fail 

And  fall  into  the  mire. 


Our  conscience-cry  with  pardon  meet ; 

Our  passion  cleanse  with  pain ; 
Lord,  thou  didst  make  these  miry  feet- 

O !  wash  them  clean  again. 


XIV. 
MARTHA. 

With  joyful  pride  her  heart  is  high : 
Her  humble  chambers  hold 

The  man  prophetic  destiny 
Long  centuries  hath  foretold. 

Poor,  is  He  ?  Yes,  and  lowly  born : 
Her  woman-soul  is  proud 

To  know  and  hail  the  coming  morn 
Before  the  eyeless  crowd. 


MARTHA.  173 

At  her  poor  table  will  He  eat? 

He  shall  be  served  there 
With  honor  and  devotion  meet 

For  any  king  that  were. 

'Tis  all  she  can  ;  she  does  her  part, 

Profuse  in  sacrifice  ; 
Nor  knows  that  in  her  unknown  heart 

A  better  offering  lies. 

But  many  crosses  she  must  bear; 

Her  plans  are  turned  and  bent ; 
Do  all  she  can,  things  will  not  wear 

The  form  of  her  intent. 

With  idle  hands,  and  drooping  lid, 

See  Mary  sit  at  rest! 
Shameful  it  was  her  sister  did 

No  service  for  their  guest. 

But  Martha  one  day  Mary's  lot 
Must  share  with  hands  and  eyes  ; 

Must  — all  her  household  cares  forgot  — 
Sit  down  as  idly  wise. 


174  THE   GOSPEL   WOMEN. 

Ere  long  they  both  in  Jesus'  ear 
Shall  make  the  self-same  moan  : 

"  Lord,  if  thou  only  hadst  been  here, 
My  brother  had  not  gone." 

Then  once  will  Martha  set  her  word. 
Yet  once,  to  bar  his  ways, 

Crying,  "  By  this  he  stinketh.  Lord  ; 
He  hath  been  dead  four  days." 

When  Lazarus  drags  his  trammeled  clay 
Forth  with  half-opened  eyes. 

Her  buried  best  will  hear,  obey, 
And  with  the  dead  man  rise. 


XV. 

MARY. 
I. 

She  sitteth  at  the  Master's  feet 

In  motionless  employ  ; 
Her  ears,  her  heart,  her  soul  complete 

Drinks  in  the  tide  of  joy. 


MARY.  175 

Ah  !  who  but  her  the  glory  knows 

Of  Hfe,  pure,  high,  intense, 
Whose  holy  calm  breeds  awful  shows 

Beyond  the  realm  of  sense  ! 

In  her  still  ear,  his  thoughts  of  grace 

Incarnate  are  in  voice  ; 
Her  thoughts,  the  people  of  the  place, 

Receive  them,  and  rejoice. 

Her  eyes,  with  heavenly  reason  bright, 

Are  on  the  ground  cast  low ; 
It  is  his  words  of  truth  and  light 

That  sets  them  shining  so. 

But  see !  a  face  is  at  the  door 

Whose  eyes  are  not  at  rest ; 
A  voice  breaks  in  on  wisest  lore 

With  petulant  request. 

"  Lord,"  Martha  says,  "  dost  thou  not  care 

She  lets  me  serve  alone  ? 
Tell  her  to  come  and  take  her  share." 

Still  Mary's  eyes  shine  on. 


1/6  THE   GOSPEL  WOMEN. 

Calmly  she  lifts  a  questioning  glance 
To  Him  who  calmly  heard  ; 

The  merest  sign,  she'll  rise  at  once, 
Nor  wait  the  uttered  word. 

The  other,  standing  by  the  door, 
Waits  too  what  He  will  say. 

His  "Martha,  Martha"  with  it  bore 
A  sense  of  coming  nay. 

Gently  her  troubled  heart  He  chid ; 

Rebuked  its  needless  care  \ 
Methinks  her  face  she  turned  and  hid, 

With  shame  that  bordered  prayer. 

What  needful  thing  is  Mary's  choice, 
Nor  shall  be  taken  away  ? 

There  is  but  one  —  'tis  Jesus'  voice  ; 
And  listening  she  shall  stay. 

O,  joy  to  every  doubting  heart, 
Doing  the  thing  it  would. 

When  He,  the  holy,  takes  its  part, 
And  calls  its  choice  the  irood  ! 


MARY.  177 

II. 
Not  now  the  living  words  are  poured 

Into  her  single  heart ; 
For  many  guests  are  at  the  board, 

And  many  tongues  take  part. 

With  sacred  foot,  refrained  and  slow, 
'     With  daring,  trembling  tread, 
She  comes,  with  worship  bending  low 
Behind  the  godlike  head. 

The  costly  chrism,  in  snowy  stone, 

A  gracious  odor  sends. 
Her  little  hoard,  so  slowly  grown, 

In  one  full  act  she  spends. 

She  breaks  the  box,  the  honored  thing ! 

And  down  its  riches  pour ; 
Her  priestly  hands  anoint  her  king. 

To  reign  for  evermore. 

With  murmur  and  nod,  they  called  it  waste : 
Their  love  they  could  endure ; 


1/8  THE   GOSPEL  WOMEN. 

Hers  ached  a  prisoner  in  her  breast, 
And  she  forgot  the  poor. 

She  meant  it  for  his  coming  state ; 

He  took  it  for  his  doom. 
The  other  women  were  too  late, 

For  He  had  left  the  tomb. 


XVI. 

THE   WOxMAN  THAT  WAS   A   SINNER. 
His  face,  his  words,  her  heart  awoke  ; 

Awoke  her  slumbering  truth  ; 
She  judged  Him  well  ;    her  bonds  she  broke. 

And  fled  to  Him  for  ruth. 

With  tears  she  washed  his  weary  feet ; 

She  wiped  them  with  her  hair ; 
Her  kisses  —  call  them  not  unmeet. 

When  they  were  welcome  there. 

What  saint  —  a  richer  crown  to  throw, 
Could  love's  ambition  teach  ? 


THE   WOMAN   THAT   WAS   A   SINNER.       179 

lier  eyes,  her  lips,  her  hair,  down  go, 
In  love's  despair  of  speech. 

His  holy  manhood's  perfect  worth 

Owns  her  a  woman  still ; 
It  is  impossible  henceforth 

For  her  to  stoop  to  ill. 

Her  to  herself  his  words  restore, 

The  radiance  to  the  day  ; 
A  horror  to  herself  no  more, 

Not  yet  a  cast-away  ! 

And  so,  in  kisses,  ointment,  tears. 

And  outspread  lavish  hair, 
Love,  shame,  and  hope,  and  griefs  and  fears. 

Mingle  in  worship  rare. 

Mary,  thy  hair  thou  didst  not  spread 

About  the  holy  feet ; 
Didst  only  bless  the  holy  head 

With  spikenard's  ointment  sweet. 


l80  THE   GOSPEL   WOMEN. 

Or  if  thou  didst,  as  some  would  hold  — 
Thy  heart  the  lesson  caught, 

The  abandonment  so  humble-bold, 
From  her  whom  pardon  taught. 

And  if  thy  hair  thou  too  didst  wind 

The  holy  feet  around. 
Such  plenteous  tears  thou  couldst  not  find 

As  this  sad  woman  found. 

Let  her  in  grief  the  first  be  read  — 
And  love,  the  woeful  sweet ! 

Be  thou  content  to  bless  his  head, 
Let  this  one  crown  his  feet. 

Simon,  her  kisses  will  not  soil ; 

Her  tears  are  pure  as  rain ; 
Eye  not  her  hair's  untwisted  coil. 

Baptized  in  pardoning  pain. 
•• 
For  God  hath  pardoned  all  her  much; 

Her  iron  bands  hath  burst ; 


THE   WOMAN   THAT   WAS   A   SINNER.       l8l 

Her  love  could  never  have  been  such, 
Had  not  his  love  been  first. 

But  O  !  rejoice,  ye  sisters  pure. 

Who  hardly  know  her  case: 
There  is  no  sin  but  has  its  cure. 

Its  all  consuming  grace. 

He  did  not  leave  her  soul  in  hell, 

'Mong  shards  the  silver  dove; 
But  raised  her  pure  that  she  might  tell 

Her  sisters  how  to  love. 

She  gave  Him  all  your  best  love  can. 

Was  He  despised  and  sad  ?  — 
Yes  ',  and  yet  never  mighty  man 

Such  perfect  homage  had. 

Jesus,  by  whose  forgiveness  sweet. 

Her  love  grew  so  intense. 
We,  sinners  all,  come  round  thy  feet  — 

Lord,  make  no  difference. 


A    BOOK   OF   SONNETS. 


A  BOOK  OF  SONNETS. 


THE   BURNT   OFFERING. 
'T^HRICE-HAPPY    he,    whose    heart,    each    new- 

born  night. 
When  the  worn  day  hath  vanished  o'er  earth's  brim, 
And  he  hath  laid  him  down  in  chamber  dim, 
Straightway  begins  to  tremble  and  grow  bright, 
And  loose  faint  flashes  towards  the  vaulted  height 
Of  the  great  peace  that  overshadows  him, 
Till  tongues  of  fiery  hope  awake  and  swim 
Through  his  soul,  and  touch  each  point  with  light  1 
Then  the  great  earth  a  holy  altar  is, 
Upon  whose  top  a  sacrifice  he  lies, 
Burning  in  love's  response  up  to  the  skies 
V/hose  fire  descended  first  and  kindled  his : 
When  slow  the  flickering  flames  at  length  expire, 
Sleep's  ashes  only  hide  the  glowing  fire. 


THE    UNSEEN   FACE. 

"I  DO  beseech  thee,  God,  show  me  thy  face." 
"  Come  up  to  me  in  Sinai  on  the  morn  : 
Thou  shalt  behold  as  much  as  may  be  borne." 
And  on  a  rock  stood  Moses,  lone  in  space. 
From  Sinai's  top,  the  vaporous,  thunderous  place, 
God  passed  in  cloud,  an  earthly  garment  worn 
To  hide,  and  thus  reveal.     In  love,   not  scorn, 
He  put  him  in   a  cleft  of  the  rock's  base. 
Covered  him  with  his  hand,   his  eyes   to   screen  — 
Passed  —  lifted  it  —  his  back  alone  appears. 
Ah,  Moses !  had  he  turned,  and  hadst  thou  seen 
The    pale   face   crowned   with   thorns,  baptized   with 

tears. 
The  eyes  of  the  true  man,   by  men  belied, 
Thou  hadst  beheld  God's  face,  and  straightway  died. 


CONCERNING  JESUS. 


If  thou  hadst  been  a  sculptor,  what  a  race 

Of  forms  divine  had  thenceforth  filled  the  land  ! 

Methinks   I  see  thee,  glorious   workman,  stand. 

Striking  a  marble  window   through  blind   space  ; 

Thy  face's  reflex  on  the  coming  face, 

As  dawns  the  stone  to  statue  'neath  thy  hand  — 

Body  obedient  to  its  soul's  command, 

Which  is  thy  thought  informing  it  with  grace  ! 

So  had  it  been.     But  God,  who  quickeneth   clay, 

Nor  turneth  it  to  marble  —  maketh  eyes. 

Not  shadowy  hollows,   where  no  sunbeams  play, 

Would   mould  his  loftiest  thought  in   human  guise 

Thou  didst  appear,  walking  unknown   abroad, 

God's  living  sculpture^  all-informed  of  God. 


1 88  A   BOOK   OF   SONNETS. 


If  one  should  say,  "  Lo,  there  thy  statue !    take 

Possession^  sculptor ;  now  inherit  it ; 

Go  forth  upon  the  earth  in  likeness  fit; 

As  with  a  trumpet-cry  at  morning,  wake 

The  sleeping  nations ;  with  light's  terror,  shake 

The  slumber  from  their  hearts,  that,  where  they  sit, 

They  leap  straight  up,  aghast,  as  at  a  pit 

Gaping  beneath ; "    I  hear  him  answer  make  : 

"  Alas  for  me !  for  I  nor  can  nor  dare 

Inform  what  I  revered  as  I  did  trace. 

'Twere  scorn,  inspired  truth  so  to  impair. 

With  feeble  spirit  mocking  the  enorm 

Strength  on  its  forehead."     Thou,  God's  thought  thy 

form. 
Didst  live  the  large  significance  of  thy  face. 


III. 

Men  have  I  seen,  and  seen  with  wonderment, 
Noble  in  form,  "lift  upward  and  divine,"^ 
1  Marlowe's   Tamkirlaine  the  Great. 


CONCERNING  JESUS.  189 

In  whom  I   yet  must  search,  as  in  a  mine, 
After  that  saul  of  theirs,  by  which  they  went 
Alive  upon  the  earth.     And  I  have  bent. 
Regard  on  many  a  woman,  who  gave  sign 
God  willed  her  beautiful,  when  He  drew  the  line 
That  shaped  each  float  and  fold  of  beauty's  tent : 
Her  soul,  alas  !  chambered  in  pygmy  space, 
Left  the  fair  visage  pitiful  inane  — 
Poor  signal  only  of  a  coming  face 
When  from  the  penetrale  she  filled  the  fane. 
Possessed  of  thee  was  every  form  of  thine  — 
Thy  very  hair  replete  with  the  divine. 


IV. 

If  thou  hast  built  a  temple,  how  my  eye 

Had  greedily  worshipped,  from  the  low-browed  crypt 

Up  to  the  soaring  pinnacles  that,  tipt 

With  stars,  made    signals  when    the    sun  drew  nigh! 

Dark  caverns  in  and  under  ;  vivid  sky 

Its  home  and  aim  !     Say,  from  the  glory  slipt, 

And  down  into  the  shadows  dropt  and  dipt, 

Or  reared  from  darkness  up  so  holy-high? 


190  A   BOOK   OF   SONNETS. 

'Tis  man  himself,  the  temple  of  thy  Ghost, 

From  hidden  origin  to  hidden  fate  — 

Foot  in  the  grave,  head  in  blue  spaces  great  — 

From  grave  and  sky  filled  with  a  fighting  host. 

Fight   glooms  and   glory?    or  does  the  glory  borrow 

Strength  from  the  hidden  glory  of  to-morrow  ? 


V. 

If  thou  hadst  been  a  painter,  what  fresh  looks, 

What  outbursts  of  pent  glories,  what  new  grace 

Had  shone  upon  us  from  the  great  world's  face ! 

How  had  we  read  as  in  new-languaged  books, 

Clear  love  of  God  in  loneliest  shyest  nooks ! 

A  lily,  if  thy  hand  its  form  did  trace, 

Had  plainly  been  God's  child,  of  lower  race  ;  — 

How  strong  the  hills,  how  sweet  the  grassy  brooks ! 

To  thee  all  nature  open  lay,  and  bare. 

Because  thy  soul  was  nature's  inner  side ; 

Clear  as  the  world  on  the  dawn's  golden  tide. 

Its  vast  idea  in  thy  soul  did  rise ; 

Thine  was  the  earth,  thine  all  her  meanings  rare  — 

The  ideal  Man,  with  the  eternal  eyes ! 


CONCERNING  JESUS.  I9I 

VI. 

But  I  have  seen  pictures  the  work  of  man, 

In  which  at  first  appeared  but  chaos  wild  : 

So  high  the  art   transcended,  they  beguiled 

The  eye  as  formless,  and  without  a  plan. 

Not  soon  the  spirit,  brooding  o'er,  began 

To  see  a  purpose  rise,  like  mountain  isled, 

When  God  said,  Let  the  Dry  appear  !    and,  piled 

Above  the  waves,  it  rose  in  twilight  wan. 

So  might  thy  pictures  then  have  been  too  strange 

For  us  to  pierce  beyond  their  outmost  look  ; 

A  vapor  and  a  darkness  ;  a  sealed  book  ; 

An  atmosphere  too  high  for  wings  to  range  ; 

Where  gazing  must  our  spirits  pale  and  change, 

And  tremble  as  at  a  void  thought  cannot  brook. 


VII. 

But  earth  is  now  thy  living  picture,  where 
Thou  shadowest  truth,  the  simple  and  profound 
By  the  same  form  in  vital  union  bound  : 
Where  one  can  see  but  the  first  step  of  thy  stair, 


192  A   BOOK   OF   SONNETS. 

Another  sees  it  vanish  far  in  air. 
When  thy  king  David  viewed  the  starry  round, 
From  heart  and  fingers  broke    the  psaltery-sound : 
Lord,    what    is    man,  that    thou     shouldst    mind    his 

prayer ! 
But  when  the  child  beholds  the  heavens  on  high, 
He  babbles  childish  noises  —  not  less  dear 
Than  what  the  king  sang  praying  —  to  the  ear 
Of  Him  who  made  the  child,  and  king,  and  sky. 
Earth  is  thy  picture,  painter  great,  whose  eye 
Sees  with  the  child,  sees  with  the  kingly  seer. 


VIII. 

If  thou  hadst  built  some  mighty  instrument, 
And  set  thee  down  to  utter  ordered  sound, 
Whose  faithful  billows,  from  thy  hands  unbound, 
Breaking  in  light,  against  our  spirits  went. 
And  caught,  and  bore  above  this  earthly  tent. 
The  far-strayed  back  to  their  prime  natal  ground, 
Where  all  roots  fast  in  harmony  are  found. 
And  God  sits  thinking  out  a  pure  concent ; 
If — ah  !    how  easy  that  had  been  for  thee  ! 


CONCERNING  JESUS.  ig3 

Our  broken  music  thou  must  first  restore  — 
A  harder  task  than  think  thine  own  out  free  ; 
But  till  thou  hast  done  it,  no  divinest  score, 
Though  rendered  by  thine  own  angelic  choir, 
Could  lift  a  human  soul  from  foulest  mire. 


IX. 

If  thou  hadst  been  a  poet!     On  my  heart 

The  thought  flashed  sudden,  burning  through  the  weft 

Of  life,  and  with  too  much  I  sank  bereft. 

Up  to  my  eyes  the  tears,  with  sudden  start, 

Thronged   blinding:    would   the   veil    now  rend    and 

part  ? 
The  husk  of  vision  —  would  that  in  twain  be  cleft, 
Its  hidden  soul  in  naked  beauty  left, 
And  I  behold  thee,  Nature,  as  thou  art.? 

0  poet  Jesus !  at  thy  holy  feet 

1  should  have  lien,  sainted  with  listening ; 
My  pulses  answering  ever,  in  rhythmic  beat, 
The  stroke  of  each  triumphant  melody's  wing, 
Creating,  as  it  moved,  my  being  sweet ; 

My  soul  thy  harp,  thy  word  the  quivering  string. 
13 


194  A   BOOK   OF   SONNETS. 


Thee  had  we  followed  through  the  twilight  land 

Where  thought  grows  form,  and  matter  is  refined 

Back  into  thought  of  the  eternal  mind, 

Till,  seeing  them  one,  lo,  in  the  morn  we  stand  ! 

Then  start  afresh  and  follow,  hand  in  hand. 

With  sense  divinely  growing,  till,  combined, 

We  heard  the  music  of  the  planets  wind 

In  harmony  with  billows  on  the  strand  ! 

Till,  one  with  earth  and  all  God's  utterance, 

We  hardly  knew  whether  the  sun  outspake, 

Or  a  glad  sunshine  from  our  spirits  brake ; 

Whether  we  think,  or  winds  and  blossoms  dance  ! 

Alas,  O  poet  leader !  for  such  good. 

Thou  wast  God's  tragedy,  writ  in  tears  and  blood. 


XI. 

Hadst  thou  been  one  of  these,  in  many  eyes. 
Too  near  to  be  a  glory  for  thy  sheen. 
Thou  hadst  been  scorned ;  and  to  the  best  hadst  been 
A  setter  forth  of  strange  divinities  ; 


CONCERNING  JESUS.  I95 

But  to  the  few  construct  of  harmonies, 
A  sudden  sun,  uplighting  the  serene 
High  heaven  of  love ;   and,  through  the  cloudy  screen 
That  'twixt  our  souls  and  truth  all  wretched  lies 
Dawning  at  length,  hadst  been  a  love  and  fear, 
Worshipped  on  high  from  magian's  mountain-crest, 
And  all  night  long  symboled  by  lamp-flames  clear  ; 
Thy  sign,  a  star  upon  thy  people's  breast, 
Where  now  a  strange  mysterious  token  lies, 
That  once  barred  out  the  sun  in  noontide  skies. 


XII. 

But  as  thou  camest  forth  to  bring  the  poor, 

Whose  hearts  are  nearer  faith  and  verity. 

Spiritual  childhood,  thy  philosophy  — 

So  taught'st  the  A,  B,  C  of  heavenly  lore  ; 

Because  thou  sat'st  not  lonely  evermore, 

With  mighty  thoughts  informing  language  high, 

But,  walking  in  thy  poem  continually. 

Didst  utter  deeds,  of  all  true  forms  the  core  — 

Poet  and  poem  one  indivisible  fact ; 

Because  thou  didst  thine  own  ideal  act, 


196  A   BOOK   OF   SONNETS. 

And  so  for  parchment,  on  the  human  soul 
Didst  write  thine  aspirations,  at  thy  goal 
Thou  didst  arrive  with  curses  for  acclaim, 
And  cry  to  God  up  through  a  cloud  of  shame. 

XIII. 

For  three-and-thirty  years,  a  living  seed, 
A  lonely  germ,  dropt  on  our  waste  world's  side, 
Thy  death  and  rising  thou  didst  calmly  bide  ; 
Sore  companied  by  many  a  clinging  weed 
Sprung  from  the  fallow  soil  of  evil  and  need ; 
Hither  and  thither  tossed,  by  friends  denied ; 
Pitied  of  goodness  dull,  and  scorned  of  pride ; 
Until  at  length  was  done  the  awful  deed, 
And  thou  didst  lie  outworn  in  stony  bower 
Three  days  asleep  —  O,  slumber  godlike  brief 
For  man  of  sorrows  and  acquaint  with  grief! 
Heaven's  seed  thou  diedst,  that    out    of  thee    might 

tower 
Aloft  with  rooted  stem  and  shadowy  leaf, 
Of  all  humanity  the  crimson  flower. 


CONCERNING  JESUS.  lO/ 

XIV. 

When  dim  the  ethereal  eye,  no  art,  though  clear 
As  golden  star  in  morning's  amber  springs, 
Can  pierce  the  fogs  of  low  imaginings  : 
Painting  and  sculpture  are  but  mockery  mere. 
When  dull  to  deafness  is  the  hearing  ear, 
Vain  too  the  poet.     Nought  but  earthly  things 
Have  credence.     When  the  soaring  skylark  sings 
How  shall  the  stony  statue  strain  to  hear? 
Open  the  deaf  ear,  wake  the  sleeping  eye, 
And  lo,  musicians,  painters,  poets  —  all 
Trooping  unsent  for,  come  without  a  call ; 
As  winds  that  where  they  list  blow  evermore  ; 
As  waves  from  silent  deserts  roll  to  die 
In  mighty  voices  on  the  peopled  shore. 

XV. 

Our  ears  thou  openedst ;  mad'st  our  eyes  to  see 
All  they  who  work  in  stone  or  color  fair, 
Or  build  up  temples  of  the  quarried  air, 
Which  we  call  music,  scholars  are  of  thee. 
Henceforth  in  might  of  such  the  earth  shall  be 


198  A   BOOK   OF   SONNETS. 

Truth's  temple-theatre,  where  she  shall  wear 

All  forms  of  revelation,  and  they  bear 

Tapers  in  acolyte  humility. 

O  Master-maker !  thy  exultant  art 

Goes  forth  in  making  makers.     Pictures .''     No  ; 

But  painters,  who  in  love  and  truth  shall  show 

Glad  secrets  from  thy  God's  rejoicing  heart. 

All-unforetold,  green  grass  and  corn  up  start, 

When  through  dead  sands  thy  living  waters  go. 

XVI. 

From  the  beginning  good  and  fair  are  one ; 

But  men  the  beauty  from  the  truth  will  part. 

And,  though  the  truth  is  ever  beauty's  heart, 

After  the  beauty  will,  short-breathed,  run, 

And  the  indwelling  truth  deny  and  shun. 

Therefore,  in  cottage,  synagogue,  and  mart. 

Thy  thoughts  came  forth  in  common  speech,  not  art ; 

With  voice  and  eye  in  Jewish  Babylon 

Thou  taughtest  —  not  with  pen  or  carved  stone, 

Nor  in  thy  hand  the  trembling  wires  didst  take  ; 

Thou  of  the  truth  not  less  than  all  wouldst  make ; 

For  her  sake  even  her  forms  thou  didst  disown: 


CONCERNING  JESUS.  I99 

Ere  beauty  cause  the  word  of  truth  to  fail, 
The  light  behind  shall  burn  the  broidered  veil. 


XVII. 

Holy  of  holies  !  —  Lord,  let  me  come  nigh  ! 

For,  Lord,  thy  body  is  the  shining  veil 

By  which  I  look  on  God  and  am  not  pale. 

Forgive  me,  if  in  these  poor  verses  lie 

Mean  thoughts,  for  see,  the  thinker  is  not  high. 

But  were  my  song  as  loud  as  saints'  all-hail, 

As  pure  as  prophet's  cry  of  warning  wail, 

As  holy  as  thy  mother's  ecstasy, 

I  know  a  better  thing  —  for  love  or  ruth. 

To  my  weak  heart  a  little  child  to  take. 

Nor  thoughts  nor  feelings,  art  nor  wisdom  seal 

The  man  who  at  thy  table  bread  shall  break. 

Thy  praise  was  not  that  thou  didst  know,  or  feel, 

Or  show,  or  love,  but  that  thou  didst  the  truth. 


XVIII. 

Despised  !     Rejected  by  the  priest-led  roar 
Of  multitudes  !     The  imperial  purple  flung 


200  A   BOOK   OF   SONNETS. 

Around  the  form  the  hissing  scourge  had  wrung ! 
To  the  bare  truth  dear  witnessing,  before 
The  false,  and  trembling  true  !     As  on  the  shore 
Of  infinite  love  and  truth,  I  kneel  among 
'I'he  blood-prints,  and  with  dumb  adoring  tongue, 
Cry  to  the  naked  man  who  erewhile  wore 
The  love-wove  garment,  —  "  Witness  to  the  truth, 
Crowned  by  thy  witnessing,  thou  art  the  King  ! 
With  thee  I  die,  to  live  in  worshipping. 
O  human  God !     O  brother,  eldest  born  ! 
Never  but  thee  was  there  a  man  in  sooth  ! 
Never  a  true  crown  but  thy  crown  of  thorn  ! " 


A   MEMORIAL   OF   AFRICA. 


Upon  a  rock  I  sat  —  a  mountain-side, 

Far,  far  forsaken  of  the  old  sea's  lip  ; 

A  rock  where  ancient  waters'  rise  and  dip, 

P.ecoil  and  plunge,  and  backward  eddying  tide 

Had  worn  and  worn,  while  races  lived  and  died, 

Involved  channels.     Where  the  sea-weed's  drip 

Followed  the  ebb,  now  crumbling  lichens  sip 

Sparse  dews  of  heaven,  that  down  with  sunset  slide. 

I  sat  and  gazed  southwards.     A  dry  flow 

Of  withering  wmd  sucked  up  my  drooping   strength, 

Slow  gliding  from  the  desert's  burning  length. 

Behind  me  piled,  away  and  upward  go 

Great  sweeps  of  savage  mountains  —  up,  away. 

Where  snow  gleams  ever  —  panthers  roam,  they  say. 


202  A  BOOK  OF  SONNETS. 


IT. 


This  infant  world  has  taken  long  to  make  ! 

Nor  hast  Thou  done  the  making  of  it  yet, 

But  wilt  be  working  on  when  death  has  set 

A  new  mound  in  some  church-yard  for  my  sake. 

On  flow  the  centuries  without  a  break ; 

Uprise  the  mountains,  ages  without  let ; 

The  lichens  suck  the  rock's  breast  —  food  they  get : 

Years  more  than  past,  the  young  earth  yet  will  take. 

But  in  the  dumbness  of  the  rolling  time, 

No  veil  of  silence  shall  encompass  me  — 

Thou  wilt  not  once  forget  and  let  me  be  ; 

Rather  wouldst  thou  some  old  chaotic  prime 

Invade,  and,  with  a  tenderness  sublime, 

Unfold  a  world,  that  I,  thy  child,  might  see. 


A.    M.    D. 

Methinks  I  see  thee,  lying  straight  and  low, 
Silent  and  darkling,  in  thy  earthy  bed, 
The  mighty  strength  in  which  I  trusted,  fled, 
The  long  arms  lying  careless  of  kiss  or  blow ; 
On  thy  tall  form  I  see  the  night  robe    flow 
Down  from  the  pale,  composed  face  —  thy  head 
Crowned  with  its  own  dark  curls :  though  thou  wast 

dead. 
They  dressed  thee  as  for  sleep,  and  left  thee  so. 
My  heart,  with  cares  and  questionings  oppressed, 
Seldom  since  thou  didst  leave  me,  turns  to  thee  ; 
But  wait,  my  brother,  till  I  too  am  dead. 
And  thou  shalt  find  that  heart  more  true,  more  free, 
More  ready  in  thy  love  to  take  its  rest. 
Than  when  we  lay  together  in  one  bed. 


TO   GARIBALDI. 

WITH   A   BOOK  —  WHEN    HE   VISITED   ENGLAND. 

When,  at  Philippi,  he  who  would  have  freed 
Great  Rome  from  tyrants,  for  the  season  brief 
That  lay  'twixt  him  and  battle,  sought  relief 
From  painful  thoughts,  he  in  a  book  did  read. 
That  so  the  death  of  Portia  might  not  breed 
Too  many  thoughts,  and  cloud    his  mind  with  grief: 
Brother  of  Brutus,  of  high  hearts  the  chief. 
When  thou  in  heaven  receiv'st  the  heavenly  meed, 
And  I  shall  find  my  hoping  not  in  vain, 
Tell  me  my  book  has  wiled  away  one  pang 
That  out  of  some  lone  sacred  memory  sprang. 
Or  wrought  an  hour's  forgetfulness  of  pain, 
And  I  shall  rise,  my  heart  brimful  of  gain. 
And  thank  my  God  amid  the  golden  clang. 


TO  S.  F.  S. 

They  say  that  lonely  sorrows  do  not  chance. 
It  may  be  true  ;  one  thing  I  think  I  know : 
New  sorrow  joins  a  gliding  funeral  slow 
With  less  jar  than  it  shocks  a  merry  dance. 
But  if  griefs  troop,  why,  joy  doth  joy  enhance 
As  often,  and  the  balance   levels  so. 
If  quick  to  see  flowers  by  the  way-side  blow, 
As  quick  to  feel  the  lurking  thorns  that  lance 
The  foot  that  walketh  naked  in  the  way,  — 
Blest  by  the  lily,  white  from  toils  and  fears, 
Oftener  than  wounded  by  the  thistle-spears. 
We  should  walk  upright,  bold,  and  earnest-gay; 
And  when  the  last  night  closed  on  the  last  day. 
Should  sleep  like  one  that  far-off  music  hears. 


ORGAN   SONGS, 


TO  A.  J.  SCOTT. 

WITH    THE   FOLLOWING    POEM. 

T  WALKED  all  night :  the  darkness  did  not  yield. 

Around  me  fell  a  mist,  a  weary  rain, 
Enduring  long.     At  length  the  dawn  reveated 

A  temple's  front,  high-lifted  from  the  plain. 
Closed  were  the  lofty  doors  that  led  within  ; 
But  by  a  wicket  one  might  entrance  gain. 

'Twas  awe  and  silence.  When  I  entered  in, 
The  night,  the  weariness,  the  rain  were  lost 
In  hopeful  spaces.     First  I  heard  a  thin 

Sweet  sound  of  voices  low,  together  tossed, 

As  if  they  sought  some  harmony  to  find 

Which  they  knew  once,  but  none  of  all  that  host 

Could  wile  the  far-fled  music  back  to  mind. 
Loud  voices,  distance-low,  wandered  along 
The  pillared  paths,  and  up  the  arches  twined 
14 


2IO  ORGAN   SONGS. 

With  sister-arches,  rising,  throng  on  throng, 
Up  to  the  roofs  dim  height.     At  broken  times 
The  voices  gathered  to  a  burst  of  song, 

But  parted  sudden,  and  were  but  single  rhymes 
By  single  bells  through  Sabbath  morning  sent, 
That  have  no  thought  of  harmony  or  chimes. 

Hopeful  confusion!     Who  could  be  content 
Looking  and  listening  only  by  the  door  ? 
I  entered  further.     Solemnly  it  went  — 

Thy  voice,  Truth's  herald,  walking  the  untuned  roar, 
Calm  and  distinct,  powerful  and  sweet  and  fine  : 
I  loved  and  listened,  listened  and  loved  more. 

If  the  weak  harp  may,  tremulous,  combine 
Faint  ghostlike  sounds  with  organ's  loudest  tone. 
Let  my  poor  song  be  taken  in  to  thine. 


Thy  heart,  with  organ-tempests  of  its  own, 
11  h( 
1850. 


Will  hear  seolian  sighs  from  thin  chords  blown. 


LIGHT. 

First-born  of  the  creating  Voice  ! 

Minister  of  God's  Spirit,  who  wast  sent 

Waiting  upon  Him  first,  what  time  He  went 

Moving  about  'mid  the  tumultuous  noise 

Of  each  unpiloted  element 

Upon  the  face  of  the  void  formless  deep  ! 

Thou  who  didst  come  unbodied  and  alone, 

Ere  yet  the  sun  was  set  his  rule  to  keep, 

Or  ever  the  moon  shone, 

Or  e'er  the  wandering  star-flocks  forth  were  driven  ! 

Thou  garment  of  the  Invisible,  whose  skirt 

Sweeps,  glory-giving,  over  earth  and  heaven  ! 

Thou  comforter,  be  with  me  as  thou  wert 

When  first  I  longed  for  words,  to  be 

A  radiant  garment  for  my  thought,  like  thee. 

We  lay  us  down  in  sorrow, 
Wrapt  in  the  old  mantle  of  our  mother  Night ; 


212  ORGAN   SONGS. 

In  vexing  dreams  we  strive  until  the  morrow ; 
Grief  lifts  our  eyelids  up  —  and  lo,  the  light ! 
The  sunlight  on  the  wall  !     And  visions  rise 
Of  shining  leaves  that  make  sweet  melodies  ; 
Of  wind-borne  waves  with  thee  upon  their  crests  ; 
Of  rippled  sands  on  which  thou  rainest  down; 
Of  quiet  lakes  that  smooth  for  thee  their  breasts  ; 
Of  clouds  that  show  thy  glory  as  their  own  ; 
O  joy !  O  joy !  the  visions  are  gone  by ! 
Light,  gladness,  motion,  are  reality  ! 

Thou  art  the  god  of  earth.     The  skylark  springs 
Far  up  to  catch  thy  glory  on  his  wings ; 
And  thou  dost  bless  him  first  that  highest  soars. 
The  bee  comes  forth  to  see  thee  ;  and  the  flowers 
Worship  thee  all  day  long,  and  through  the  skies 
Follow  thy  journey  with  their  earnest  eyes. 
River  of  life,  thou  pourest  on  the  woods. 
And  on  thy  waves  float  out  the  wakening  buds. 
The  trees  lean  towards  thee,  and,  in  loving  pain, 
Keep  turning  still  to  see  thee  yet  again. 
And  nothing  in  thine  eyes  is  mean  or  low  : 
Where'er  thou  art,  on  every  side, 


LIGHT.  213 

All  things  are  glorified  ; 

And  where    thou    canst    not    come,  there    thou  dost 

throw 
Beautiful  shadows,  made  out  of  the  dark, 
That  else  were  shapeless  j  now  it  bears  thy  mark. 

And  men  have  worshipped  thee. 
The  Persian,  on  his  mountain-top. 
Waits  kneeling  till  thy  sun  go  up, 
God-like  in  his  serenity. 
All-giving,  and  none-gifted,  he  draws  near  ; 
And  the  wide  earth  waits  till  his  face  appear  — 
Longs  patient.     And  the  herald  glory  leaps 
Along  the  ridges  of  the  outlying  clouds, 
Climbing  the  heights  of  all  their  towering  steeps  ; 
Till  a  quiet  multitudinous  laughter  crowds 
The  universal  face,  and,  silently, 
Up  Cometh  he,  the  never- closing  eye. 
Symbol  of  Deity  !    men  could  not  be 
Farthest   from   truth  when   they  were   kneeling   unto 
thee, . 

Thou  plaything  of  the  child. 
When  from  the  water's  surface  thou  dost  spring,    9 


214  ORGAN   SONGS. 

Thyself  upon  his  chamber  ceiUng  fling, 

And  there,  in  mazy  dance  and  motion  wild, 

Disport  thyself — ethereal,  undefiled, 

Capricious,  like  the  thinkings  of  the  child  ! 

I  am  a  child  again,  to  think  of  thee 

In  thy  consummate  glee. 

Or,  through  the  gray  dust  darting  in  long  streams, 

How  I  would  play  with  thee,  athirst  to  climb 

On  sloping  ladders  of  thy  moted  beams ! 

How  marvel  at  the  dusky  glimmering  red, 

With  which  my  closed  fingers  thou  hadst  made 

Like  rainy  clouds  that  curtain  the  sun's  bed! 

And  how  I  loved  thee  always  in  the  moon  ! 

But  most  about  the  harvest-time. 

When  corn  and  moonlight  made  a  mellow  tune, 

And  thou  wert  grave  and  tender  as  a  cooing  dove ! 

And  then  the  stars  that  flashed  cold,  deathless  love  ! 

And  the  ghost-stars  that  shimmered  in  the  tide  ! 

And  more  mysterious  earthly  stars, 

That  shone  from  windows  of  the  hill  and  glen  — 

Thee  prisoned  in  with  lattice-bars. 

Mingling  with  household  love  and  rest  of  weary  men  ! 

And  still  I  am  a  child,  thank  God  !  —  to  spy 


LIGHT. 

Thee  starry  stream  from  bit  of  broken  glass, 
Upon  the  brown  earth  undescried, 
Is  a  found  thing  to  me,  a  gladness  high, 
A  spark  that  lights  joy's  altar-fire  within, 
A  thought  of  hope  to  prophecy  akin. 
And  from  my  spirit  fruitless  will  not  pass. 

Thou  art  the  joy  of  age  : 
Thy  sun  is  dear  when  long  the  shadow  falls. 
Forth  to  its  friendliness  the  old  man  crawls. 
And,  like  the  bird  hung  out  in  his  poor  cage 
To  gather  song  from  radiance,  in  his  chair 
Sits  by  the  door  j   and  sitteth  there 
His  soul  within  him,  like  a  child  that  lies 
Half  dreaming,  with  half-open  eyes. 
At  close  of  a  long  afternoon  in  summer  — 
High  ruins  round  him,  ancient  ruins,  where 
The  raven  is  almost  the  only  comer  ; 
Half  dreams,  half  broods,  in  wonderment 
At  thy  celestial  descent. 
Through  rifted  loops  alighting  on  the  gold 
That  waves  its  bloom  in  many  an  airy  rent : 
So  dreams  the  old  man's  soul,  that  is  not  old. 
But  sleepy  'mid  the  ruins  that  enfold. 


215 


2l6  ORGAN   SONGS. 

What  soul-like  changes,  evanescent  moods, 
Upon  the  face  of  the  still  passive  earth. 
Its  hills,  and  fields,  and  woods. 

Thou  with  thy  seasons  and  thy  hours   art  ever  call- 
ing forth  ! 
Even  like  a  lord  of  music  bent 
Over  his  instrument, 

Who  gives  to  tears  and  smiles  an  equal  birth  ! 
When  clear  as  holiness  the  morning  ray 
Casts  the  rock's  dewy  darkness  at  its  feet. 
Mottling  with  shadow^s  all  the  mountain  gray ; 
When,  at  the  hour  of  sovereign  noon, 
Infinite  silent  cataracts  sheet 
Shadowless    through    the    air    of    thunder-breeding 

June; 
And  when  a  yellower  glory  slanting  passes 
'Twixt  longer  shadows  o'er  the  meadow  grasses  ; 
When  now  the  moon  lifts  up  her  shining  shield, 
High  on  the  peak  of  a  cloud-hill  revealed  : 
Now  crescent,  low,  wandering  sun-dazed  away, 
Unconscious  of  her  own  star-mingled  ray. 
Her  still  face  seeming  more  to  think  than  see, 
Makes  the  pale  world  lie  dreaming  dreams  of  thee  I 


LIGHT.  217 

No  mood  of  mind,  no  melody  of  soul, 
But  lies  within  thy  silent  soft  control. 

Of  operative  single  power, 
And  simple  unity  the  one  emblem. 
Yet  all  the  colors  that  our  passionate  eyes  devour, 
In  rainbow,  moonbow,  or  in  opal  gem. 
Are  the  melodious  descant  of  divided  thee. 
Lo  thee  in  3^ellow  sands  !  lo  thee 
In  the  blue  air  and  sea  ! 
In  the  green  corn,  with  scarlet  poppies  lit, 
Thy  half  souls  parted,  patient  thou  dost  sit. 
Lo  thee  in  speechless  glories  of  the  west ! 
Lo  thee  in  dew-drop's  tiny  breast ! 
Thee  on  the  vast  white  cloud  that  floats  away. 
Bearing  upon  its  skirt  a  brown  moon-ray  ! 
Regent  of  color,  thou  dost  fling 
Thy  overflowing  skill  on  everything ! 
The  thousand  hues  and  shades  upon  the  flowers, 
Are  all  the  pastime  of  thy  leisure  hours ; 
And  all  the  jeweled  ores  in  mines  that  hidden  be, 
Are  dead  till  touched  by  thee. 

Everywhere, 
Thou  art  lancing  through  the  air  ; 


2l8  ORGAN   SONGS. 

Every  atom  from  another 

Takes  thee,  gives  thee  to  his  brother  ; 

Continually. 

Thou  art  wetting  the  wet  sea, 

Bathing  its  sluggish  woods  below, 

Making  the  salt  flowers  bud  and  blow; 

Silently, 

Workest  thou,  and  ardently. 

Waking  from  the  night  of  nought 

Into  being  and  to  thought : 

Influences 

Every  beam  of  thine  dispenses, 

Potent,  subtle,  reaching  far. 

Shooting  different  from  each  star. 

Not  an  iron  rod  can  lie 

In  circle  of  thy  beamy  eye. 

But  thy  look  doth  change  it  so 

That  it  cannot  choose  but  show 

Thou,  the  worker,  hast  been  there ; 

Yea,  sometimes,  on  substance  rare, 

Thou  dost  leave  thy  ghostly  mark 

Even  in  what  men  call  the  dark. 

Doer,  shower,  mighty  teacher ! 

Truth-in-beauty's  silent  preacher  ! 


LIGHT.  219 

Universal  something  sent 

To  shadow  forth  the  Excellent ! 

When  the  first-born  affections  — 
Those  winged  seekers  of  the  world  within, 
That  search  about  in  all  directions, 
Some  bright  thing  for  themselves  to  win  — 
Through  pathless  forests,  gathering  fogs, 
Through  stony  plains,  treacherous  bogs, 
Long,  long,  have  followed  faces  fair,  — 
Fair  soulless  faces  which  have  vanished  into  air ; 
And  darkness  is  around  them  and  above, 
Desolate,  with  nought  to  love  ; 
And  through  the  gloom  on  every  side. 
Strange  dismal  forms  are  dim  descried  ; 
And  the  air  is  as  the  breath 
From  the  lips  of  void-eyed  Death ; 
And  the  knees  are  bowed  in  prayer 
To  the  Stronger  than  despair; 
Then  the  ever-lifted  cry. 
Give  us  lights  or  we  shall  die^ 
Cometh  to  the  Father's  ears. 
And  He  hearkens,  and  He  hears ; 


220  ORGAN    SONGS. 

And  slow,  as  if  some  sun  would  glimmer  forth 

From  sunless  winter  of  the  north, 

They,  hardly  trusting  happy  eyes, 

Discern  a  dawning  in  the  skies : 

'Tis  Truth  awaking  in  the  soul ; 

Thy  Righteousness  to  make  them  whole. 

What  shall  men,  this  Truth  adoring. 

Gladness  giving,  youth-restoring. 

Call  it  but  Eternal  Light?  — 

'Tis  the  morning,  'twas  the  night. 

Even  a  misty  hope  that  lies  on 

Our  dim  future's  far  horizon, 

We  call  a  fresh  aurora,  sent 

Up  the  spirit's  firmament, 

Telling,  through  the  vapors  dun, 

Of  the  coming,  coming  sun. 

All  things  most  excellent 
Are  likened  unto  thee,  excellent  thing ! 
Yea,  He  who  from  the  Father  forth  was  sent, 
Came  like  a  lamp,  to  bring. 
Across  the  winds  and  wastes  of  night. 
The  everlasting  light ; 


LIGHT.  221 

The  Word  of  God,  the  telling  of  his  thought ; 

The  Light  of  God,  the  making-visible ; 

The  far-transcending  glory  brought 

In  human  form  with  man  to  dwell ; 

The  dazzling  gone ;  the  power  not  less 

To  show,  irradiate,  and  bless  ; 

The  gathering  of  the  primal  rays  divine. 

Informing  chaos,  to  a  pure  sunshine ! 

Dull  horrid  pools  no  motion  making ! 
No  bubble  on  the  surface  breaking ! 
The  heavy  dead  air  gives  no  sound, 
Asleep  and  moveless  on  the  marshy  ground. 

Rushing  winds  and  snow-like  drift. 
Forceful,  formless,  fierce,  and  swift ! 
Hair-like  vapors  madly  riven ! 
Waters  smitten  into  dust ! 
Lightning  through  the  turmoil  driven, 
Aimless,  useless,  yet  it  must! 

Gentle  winds  through  forests  calling ! 
Bright  birds  through  the  thick  leaves  glancing  I 


222  ORGAN    SONGS. 

Solemn  waves  on  sea-shores  falling ! 
White  sails  on  blue  waters  dancing  ! 
Mountain  streams  glad  music  giving! 
Children  in  the  clear  pool  laving ! 
Yellow  corn  and  green  grass  waving! 
Long-haired,  bright-eyed  maidens  living! 
Light,  O  Radiant!  it  is  thou! 
And  we  know  our  Father  now. 


Forming  ever  without  form; 
Showing,  but  thyself  unseen  ; 
Pouring  stillness  on  the  storm ; 
Making  life  where  death  had  been ! 
Light,  if  He  did  draw  thee  in, 
Death  and  Chaos  soon  were  out, 
Weltering  o'er  the  sHmy  sea, 
Riding  on  the  whirlwind's  rout, 
In  unmaking  energy! 
Thou  art  round  us,  God  within_, 
Fighting  darkness,  slaying  sin. 

Father  of  Lights,  high-lost,  unspeakable 
On  whom  no  changing  shadow  ever  fell ! 


LIGHT.  223 

Thy  light  we  know  not,  are  content  to  see ; 

And  shall  we  doubt  because  we  know  not  thee? 

Or,  when  thy  wisdom  cannot  be  expressed. 

Fear  lest  dark  vapors   brood  within  thy  breast? 

It  shall  not  be ; 

Our  hearts  awake  and  speak  aloud  for  thee. 

The  very  shadows  on  our  souls  that  lie. 

Good  witness  to  the  light  supernal  bear ; 

The  something  'twixt  us  and  the  sky 

Could  cast  no  shadow  if  light  were  not  there. 

If  children  tremble  in  the  night, 

It  is  because  their  God  is  light. 

The  shining  of  the  common  day 

Is  mystery  still,  howe'er  it  ebb  and    flow 

Behind  the  seeing  orb,  the  secret  lies  ; 

Thy  living  light's  eternal  play, 

Its  motions,  whence  or  whither,  who  shall  know?  — 

Behind  the  life  itself,  its  fountains  rise. 

Enlighten  me,  O  Light !  —  why  art  thou  such  ? 
Why  art  thou  awful  to  our  eyes,  and  sweet  ? 
Cherished  as  love,  and  slaying  with  a  touch  ? 
Why  in  thee  do  the  known  and  unknown  meet  ? 


224  ORGAN    SONGS. 

Why  swift  and  tender,  strong  and  delicate  ? 

Simple  as  truth,  yet  manifold  in  might  ? 

Why  does  one  love  thee,  and  another  hate  ? 

Why  cleave  my  words  to  the  portals  of  my  speech. 

When  I  a  goodly  matter  would  indite  ? 

Why  fly  my  thoughts  themselves  beyond  my  reach  ? 

In  vain  to  follow  thee,  I  thee  beseech, 

For  God  is  light. 


TO   A.   J.    SCOTT. 

Thus,  once,  long  since,  the  daring  of  my  youth 
Drew  nigh  thy  greatness  with  a  little  thing. 
Thou  didst  receive  me  ;  and  thy  sky  of  truth 

Has  domed  me  since,  a  heaven  of  sheltering, 
Made  homely  by  the  tenderness  and  grace 
Which  round  thy  absolute  friendship  ever  fling 

A  radiant  atmosphere.     Turn  not  thy  face 
From  that  small  part  of  earnest  thanks,  1  pray, 
Which,  spoken,  leaves  much  more  in  speechless  case. 

I  see  thee  far  before  me  on  thy  way 
Up  the  great  peaks,  and  striding  stronger  still 
Thy  intellect  unrivaled  in  its  sway, 
15 


226  ORGAN    SONGS. 

Upheld  and  ordered  by  a  regnant  will ; 
Thy  wisdom,  seer  and  priest  of  holy  fate, 
Searching  all  truths,  its  prophecy  to  fill  ; 

But,  O  my  friend,  throned  in  thy  heart  so  great, 
High  Love  is  queen,  and  hath  no  equal  mate. 

May,  1857. 


I    WOULD    I    WERE    A   CHILD. 

I  WOULD  I  were  a  child, 
That  I  might  look,  and  laugh,  and  say,  M}'  Father ! 
And  follow  thee  with  running  feet,  or  rather 

Be  led  through  dark  and  wild. 

How  I  would  hold  thy  hand. 
My  glad  eyes  often  to  thy  glory  lifting  ! 
Should    darkness    'twixt    thy    face    and    mine    come 
drifting. 

How  hearken  thy  command ! 

If  an  ill  thing  came  near, 
I  would  but  creep  within  thy  mantle's  folding, 
Shut  my  eyes  close,  thy  hand  yet  faster  holding, 

And  thus  forgot  my  fear. 

O  soul,  O  soul,  rejoice  ! 
Thou  art  God's  child  indeed,  for  all  thy  sinning: 
A  poor  weak    child,  yet  his,  and  worth    the  winning 

With  savior  eyes  and  voice. 


228  ORGAN   SONGS. 

Who  spoke  the  words  ?     Didst  Thou  ? 
They  are  toa  good,  even  for  such  a  giver  : 
Such  water  drinking  once,  I  must  feel  ever 

As  I  had  drunk  but  now. 

Yet  sure  He  taught  us  so. 
Teaching  our  lips  to  say  with  his,  Our  Father ! 
Telling  the  tale  of  wanderer  who  did  gather 

His  goods  to  him,  and  go  ! 

Ah !   thou  dost  lead  me,  God  ; 
But  it  is  dark  ;   no  stars !    the  way  is  drear)^ ; 
Almost  I  sleep,  I  am  so  very  weary 

Upon  this  rough  hill-road. 

Ahnost !    Nay,  I  dp  sleep; 
There  is  no  darkness  save  in  this  my  dreaming ; 
Thy  fatherhood  above,  around,  is  beaming ; 

Thy  hand  my  hand  doth  keep. 

Cast  on  my  face  one  gleam  ; 
I  have  no  knowledge  but  that  I  am  sleeping  ; 
Lost  in  its  lies,  my  life  goes  out  in  weeping ; 

Wake  me  from  this  my  dream. 


I    WOULD   I   WERE   A   CHILD.  229 

How  long  shall  heavy  night 
Deny  the  day  ?     How  long  shall  this  dull  sorrow 
Say  in  my  heart  that  never  any  morrow 

Will  bring  the  vanished  light  ? 

Lord,  art  thou  in  the  room  ? 
Come  near  my  bed  ;    O  !    draw  aside  the  curtain  ; 
A  child's  heart  would  say  Father,  were  it  certain 

The  word  would  not  presume. 

But  if  this  dreary  sleep 
May  not  be  broken,  help  thy  helpless  sleeper 
To  rest  in  thee  ;   so  shall  his  sleep  grow  deeper  — 

For  evil  dreams  too  deep. 

Father!  I  dare  at  length; 
My  childhood  sure  will  shield  me  frpm  all  blaming : 
Sinful,  yet  hoping,  I  to  thee  come,  claiming 

Thy  tenderness,  my  strength. 


A  PRAYER  FOR  THE  PAST. 

All  sights  and  sounds  of  day  and  year^ 
All  groups  and  forms ^  each  leaf  and  gem^ 
Are  thine,   O  God^  nor  will  I  fear 
To  talk  to  thee  of  them. 

Too  great  thy  heart  is  to  despise  ; 
Thy  day  girds  centuries  about ; 
From  things  we  little  call,  thine  eyes 
See  great  thi7igs  looking  out, 

Thej'efore  the  prayerful  sofig  I  sing 
May  come  to  thee  in  ordered  words  ; 
Its  low-born ^echo  shall  ftot  cling 
In  terror  to  the  chords. 

I  think  that  nothing  made  is  lost ; 
That  not  a  7noon  has  ever  shone. 
That  not  a  cloud  my  eyes  hath  crossed, 
But  to  my  soul  is  gone. 


A   PRAYER   FOR  THE   PAST.  23 1 

That  all  the  lost  years  garnered  lie 
In  this  thy  casket^  7ny  dim  soul ; 
And  thou  wilt,  oncej  the  key  apply, 
And  show  the  shining  whole. 

But  zvere  they  dead  in  me,  they  live 
In  thee,  whose  Parable  is  —  Tijne^ 
And  Worlds,  and  Forms,  and  Sounds  that  give 
Thee  back  the  offered  rhyme. 

And  after  what  7?ien  call  fny  death, 
When  I  have  crossed  the  unknoivn  sea. 
Some  heavenly  morn,  on  hopeful  breath. 
Shall  rise  this  prayer  to  thee. 

O  let  me  be  a  child  once  more, 
To  dream  the  glories  of  the  gloom, 
The  climbing  suns  and  starry  store 
That  ceiled  my  little  room. 

O  call  again  the  moons  that  crossed 
Blue  gulfs,  behind  gray  vapors  crept  ; 
Show  me  the  solemn  skies  I  lost 
Because  in  thee  I  slept. 


232  ORGAN   SONGS. 

Once  more  let  gathering  glory  swell. 
And  lift  the  world's  dim  eastern  eye; 
Once  more  in  twilight's  bosoming  spell 
The  western  close  and  die. 

But  show  me  first  —  O,  blessed  sight  ! 
The  lowly  house  where  I  was  young; 
There  winter  sent  wild  winds  at  night, 
And  up  the  snow-heaps  flung ; 

Or  soundless  built  a  chaos,  fair 
With  lovely  wastes  and  lawless  forms, 
With  ghostly  trees  and  sparkling  air  — 
New  sport  for  white-robed  storms. 

But,  lo  I  there  dawned  a  dewy  morn  ; 
A  man  was  turning  up  the  mould ; 
And  in  our  hearts  the  spring  was  born, 
Crept  hither  through  the  cold. 

On  with  the  glad  year  let  me  go, 
With  troops  of  daisies  round  my  feet ; 
Flying  my  kite,  or,  in  the  glow 
Of  arching  summer  heat, 


A  PRAYER  FOR  THE  PAST.       233 

Outstretched  in  fear  upon  the  bank, 
Lest,  gazing  up  on  awful  space, 
I  should  fall  down  into  the  blank. 
From  off  the  round  world's  face. 

And  let  my  brothers  come  with  me 
To  play  our  old  games  yet  again, 
Children  on  earth,  more  full  of  glee 
That  we  in  heaven  are  men. 

If  over  us  the  shade  of  death 
Pass  like  a  cloud  across  the  sun, 
We'll  tell  a  secret,  in  low  breath  : 
"  Soon  will  the  dream  be  done. 

"'Tis  in  the  dream  our  orother 's  gone 
Up  stairs  :  he  heard  our  Father  call ; 
For  one  by  one  we  go  alone, 
Till  He  has  gathered  all." 

Father^  in  joy  our  knees  we  boiv ; 
This  earth  is  not  a  place  of  tombs : 
We  are  but  in  the  fiursery  now  ; 
They  i7i  the  upper  rooms. 


234  ORGAN   SONGS. 

For  are  wc  not  at  home  in  thee, 
And  all  this  zvorld  a  visioned  show  ; 
That,  knowing  what  Abroad  is,  we 
What  Ho7ne  is,  too,  may  k?tow  ? 

And  at  thy  feet  I  sit,   O  Lord, 
As  once  I  sat,  in  moonlight  pale. 
Hearing  my  father's  measured  ivord 
Read  out  a  lofty  tale. 

Then  in  the  vision  let  me  go 
On,  onward  through  the  gUding  years  ; 
Gathering  great  noontide's  joyous  glow, 
Eve's  love-contented  tears ; 

One  afternoon  sit  pondering 
In  that  old  chair  in  that  old  room, 
Where  passing  pigeon's  sudden  wing 
Flashed  lightning  through  the  gloom  ; 

There  try  once  more,  with  effort  vain. 
To  mould  in  one  perplexed  things  ; 
There  find  the  solace  yet  again 
Faith  in  the  Father  brines  ; 


A   PRAYER   FOR   THE   PAST.  23 5 

Or  mount  and  ride  in  sun  and  wind, 
Through  desert  moors,  hills  bleak  and  high  : 
There  wandering  vapors  fall,  and  firid 
In  me  another  sky. 

For  so  thy    Visible  grew  7?iine, 
Though  half  its  power  I  could  not  knoiu  ; 
And  in  ?ne  wrought  a  work  divine, 
Which  thou  hadst  ordered  so  ; 

Filling  my  heart  with  shape  and  word 
From  thy  full  utterance  unto  men ; 
Forms  that  with  ancie?tt  truth  accord, 
And  find  it  words  again. 

But  if  thou  give  me  thus  the  past  — 
Spring  to  thy  summer  leading  in, 
I  now  bethink  me  at  the  last — 
O  Lord,  leave  out  the  sin. 

On  what  I  loved  my  thoughts  I  bent ; 
Green  leaves  unfolding  to  their  fruits. 
Expanding  flowers,  aspiring  scent  — 
Forgot  the  writhing  roots. 


236  ORGAN    SONGS. 

For  Spring,  in  latest  years  of  youth y 
Beca?7ie  the  form  of  every  form  ; 
Now  bursting  joyous  into  truth. 
Now  sighing  in  the  storm. 

Then  far  fro7n  my  old  northern  land, 
I  lived  where  gefttle  %vinters  pass  ; 
Saw  green  seas  lave  a  wealthy  strand^ 
From  hills  of  unsown  grass. 

Saw  gorgeous  simsets  claim  the  scope 
Of  gazing  heaven,  to  spread  their  show ; 
Hang  scarlet  clouds  V  th^  topmost  cope, 
With  fringes  flamitig  low. 

Saw  one  beside  me  in  whose  eyes 
Once  more  old  Nature  fou7id  a  home; 
There  treasured  up  her  cha7igeful  skies, 
Gray  rocks  a7id  bursti7ig  foa7n. 

But  life  lies  dark  before  77ie,   God  : 
Shall  I  throughout  desire  to  see 
And  walk  07tce  mo7'e  the  hilly  road 
By  which  I  we7it  to  thee  1 


A  PRAYER  FOR  THE  PAST.       237 

0'e7'  a  new  joy  this  day  we  bend. 
Of  lovely  power  the  soul  to  lift  — 
A  tuonderiiig  wonder  thou  dost  lend 
With  loan  outpassi?ig  gift : 

*'  A  little  child  beholds  the  sun  ; 
Once  more  incarnates  thy  old  law  — 
One  born  of  two,  two  born  in  one, 
All  into  one  to  draw. 

But  is  thei'e  no  day  creeping  on 
Which  I  should  tremble  to  renezv  ? 
I  thank  thee,  Lord,  for  what  is  gone  — 
Thine  is  the  future  too. 

And  are  we  not  at  home  in  thee. 
And  all  this  world  a  visioned  show; 
That  k7i07ving  what  Abroad  is,  we 
What  Home  is  too  may  know  ? 


LONGING. 

My  heart  is  full  of  inarticulate  pain, 

And  beats  laborious.     Cold  ungenial  looks 

Invade  my  sanctuary.     Men  of  gain, 

Wise  in  success,  well-read  in  feeble  books. 

No  nigher  come,  I  pray :  your  air  is  drear ; 

'Tis  winter  and  low  skies  when  ye  appear. 

Beloved,  who  love  beauty  and  fair  truth ! 

Come  nearer  me  ;  too  near  ye  cannot  come  ; 
Make  me  an  atmosphere  with  your  sweet  youth  ; 

Give  me  your  souls  to  breathe  in,  a  large  room  ; 
Speak  not  a  word,  for  see,  my  spirit  lies 
Helpless  and  dumb ;  shine  on  me  with  your  eyes. 

O  all  wide  places,  far  from  feverous  towns  ! 

Great  shining  seas !  pine  forests !  mountains  wild ! 


LONGING.  239 

Rock-bosomed    shores !    rough    heaths !    and    sheep- 
cropt  downs  ! 
Vast  pallid  clouds !  blue  spaces  undefiled ! 
Room !  give  me  room  !  give  loneliness  and  air ! 
Free  things  and  plenteous  in  your  regions  fair. 

White  dove  of  David,  flying  overhead, 

Golden  with  sunlight  on  thy  snowy  wings, 

Outspeeding  thee  my  longing  thoughts  are  fled 
To  find  a  home  afar  from  men  and  things ; 

Where  in  his  temple,  earth  o'erarched  with  sky, 

God's  heart  to  mine  may  speak,  my  heart  reply. 

O  God  of  mountains,  stars,  and  boundless  spaces ! 

O  God  of  freedom  and  of  joyous  hearts ! 
When  thy  face  looketh  forth  from  all  men's  faces, 

There  will  be  room  enough  in  crowded  marts ; 
Brood  thou  around  me,  and  the  noise  is  o'er  ; 
Thy  universe  my  closet  with  shut  door. 

Heart,  heart,  awake  !     The  love  that  loveth  all 
Maketh  a  deeper  calm  than  Horeb's  cave. 


240  ORGAN   SONGS. 

God  in  thee,  can  his  children's  folly  gall? 

Love  may  be  hurt,  but  shall  not  love  be  brave  ?  — 
Thy  holy  silence  sinks  in  dews  of  balm ; 
Thou  art  my  solitude,  my  mountain-calm. 


I  KNOW   WHAT   BEAUTY  IS. 

I  KNOW  what  beauty  is,  for  Thou 
Hast  set  the  world  within  my  heart  ; 
Of  me  thou  madest  it  a  part ; 

I  never  loved  it  more  than  now. 

I  know  the  Sabbath  afternoons  ; 

The  light  asleep  upon  the  graves ; 

Against  the  sky  the  poplar  waves ; 
The  river  murmurs  organ  tunes. 

I  know  the  spring  with  bud  and  bell ; 

The  hush  in  summer  woods  at  night ; 

Autumn,  when  leaves  let  in  more  light ; 
Fantastic  winter's  lovely  spell. 

I  know  the  rapture  music  gives. 

The  power  that  dwells  in  ordered  tones  ; 

Dream-muffled  voice,  it  loves  and  moans, 
And  half  alive,  comes  in  and  lives. 
i6 


242  ORGAN    SONGS. 

The  charm  of  verse,  where,  love-allied, 
Music  and  thought,  in  concord  high, 
Show  many  a  glory  sailing  by, 

Borne  on  the  Godhead's  living  tide. 

And  Beauty's  regnant  All  I  know  ; 

The  imperial  head,  the  starry  eye  ; 

The  fettered  fount  of  harmony, 
That  makes  the  woman  radiant  go. 

But  I  leave  all,  thou  man  of  woe  ! 

Put  off  my  shoes,  and  come  to  thee, 

Most  beautiful  of  all  I  see. 
Most  wonderful  of  all  I  know. 

As  child  forsakes  his  favorite  toy. 

His  sisters'  sport,  his  wild  bird's  nest ; 
And,  climbing  to  his  mother's  breast. 

Enjoys  yet  more  his  former  joy  — 

I  lose  to  find.     On  white-robed  bride 
Fair  jewels  fairest  light  afford  j 
So,  gathered  round  thy  glory.  Lord, 

All  glory  else  is  glorified. 


SYMPATHY. 

Grief  held  me  silent  in  my  seat ; 

I  neither  moved  nor  smiled  : 
Joy  held  her  silent  at  my  feet, 

My  shining  lily-child. 

She  raised  her  face  and  looked  in  mine  ; 

It  seemed  she  was  denied  ; 
The  door  was  shut,  there  was  no  shine  j 

Poor  she  was  left  outside. 

Once,  twice,  three  times,  with  infant  grace, 
Her  lips  my  name  did  mould  ; 

Her  face  was  pulling  at  my  face,  — 
She  was  but  ten  months  old. 

She  called  the  thoughts  into  the  sighs  ; 

And  soon  I  asked,  —  Does  God 
Need  help  from  his  poor  children's  eyes. 

To  ease  him  of  his  load .'' 


244 


ORGAN   SONGS. 

Rarely  from  love  our  looks  arise  — 
Sometimes  from  needy  woe  : 

If  comfort  lay  in  loving  eyes, 
He  seldom  found  it  so  : 

But  when  we  cry  in  evil  case 
From  comfort's  weary  lack, 

The  weakest  hope  that  seeks  his  face 
A  stronger  hope  comes  back. 

Nor  waits  He,  moveless,  till  we  cry. 
But  wakes  the  sleeping  prayer  ; 

Not  Father  only  in  the  sky. 
But  servant  everywhere. 

I  looked  not  up  ;  nor  comfort  shd 
Downward,  my  grief  to  wile  : 

It  was  his  present  face  that  did 
Smile  upward  in  her  smile. 


THE   THANK-OFFERING. 

My  Lily  snatches  not  my  gift ; 

Hungry  she  would  be  fed, 
But  to  her  mouth  she  will  not  lift 

The  piece  of  broken  bread, 
Till  on  my  lips,  unerring,  swift, 

The  morsel  she  has  laid. 

This  is  her  grace  before  her  food, 
This  her  libation  poured  ; 

Even  thus  his  offering,  Aaron  good, 
Heaved  up  to  thank  the  Lord, 

When  for  the  people  all  he  stood, 
And  with  a  cake  adored.^ 

Our  Father,  every  gift  of  thine 
I  offer  at  thy  knee  ; 

1  Numbers  xv.  19,  20. 


246  ORGAN   SONGS. 

Not  else  I  take  the  love    divine 
With  which  it  comes  to  me ; 

Not  else  the  offered  grace  is  mine 
Of  being  one  with  thee. 

Yea,  all  my  being  I  would  lift, 

An  offering  of  me  ; 
Not  yet  my  very  own  the  gift. 

Till  heaved  again  to  thee  : 
Draw  from  this  dry  and  narrow  clift 

Thy  boat  upon  thy  sea. 


PRAYER. 

We  doubt  the  word  that  tells  us  :  Ask, 
And  ye  shall  have  your  prayer ; 

We  turn  our  thoughts  as  to  a  task, 
With  will  constrained  and  rare. 

And  yet  we  have ;  these  scanty  prayers 

Yield  gold  without  alloy : 
O  God !  but  he  that  trusts  and  dares 

Must  have  a  boundless  joy. 


REST. 

When  round  the  earth  the  Father's  hands 

Have  gently  drawn  the  dark  ; 
Sent  off  the  sun  to  fresher  lands, 

And  curtained  in  the  lark ; 
'Tis  sweet,  all  tired  with  glowing  day, 

To  fade  with  fading  light ; 
To  lie  once  more,  the  old  weary  way, 

Upfolded  in  the  night. 

If  mothers  o'er  our  slumbers  bend. 

And  unripe  kisses  reap. 
In  soothing  dreams  with  sleep  they  blend, 

Till  even  in  dreams  we  sleep. 
And  if  we  wake  while  night  is  dumb, 

'Tis  sweet  to  turn  and  say, 
It  is  an  hour  ere  dawning  come, 

And  I  will  sleep  till  day. 


REST.  249 

II. 

There  is  a  dearer,  warmer  bed, 

Where  one  all  day  may  lie. 
Earth's  bosom  pillowing  the  head. 

And  let  the  world  go  by. 
There  come  no  watching  mother's  eyes  ; 

The  stars  instead  look  down  ; 
Upon  it  breaks,  and  silent  dies. 

The  murmur  of  the  town. 

The  great  world,  shouting,  forward  fibres  ; 

This  chamber,  hid  from  none, 
Hides  safe  from  all,  for  no  one  cares 

For  him  whose  work  is  done. 
Cheer  thee,  my  friend  ;   bethink  thee  how 

A  certain  unknown  place, 
Or  here  or  there,  is  waiting  now, 

To  rest  thee  from  thy  race. 

III. 

Nay,  nay,  not  there  the  rest  from  harms, 
The  slow  composed  breath ! 


250  ORGAN    SONGS. 

Not  there  the  folding  of  the  arms  ! 

Not  there  the  sleep  of  death  ! 
It  needs  no   curtained  bed  to   hide 

The  world  with  all  its  wars ; 
No  grassy  cover  to  divide 

From  sun   and  moon  and   stars. 

There  is  a  rest  that  deeper  grows 

In  midst  of  pain  and  strife  ; 
A  mighty,   conscious,   willed  repose. 

The  death  of  deepest  life. 
To  have  and  hold  the  precious  prize 

No  need   of  jealous  bars  ; 
But  windows  open  to  the  skies, 

And  skill   to  read   the  stars. 


IV. 

Who  dvvelleth   in  that  secret  place, 
Where  tumult  enters   not, 

Is  never  cold  with   terror  base. 
Never  with  anger  hot. 


REST.  251 

For  if  an  evil  host  should  dare 

His  very  heart  invest, 
God  is  his  deeper  heart,   and   there 

He  enters  in  to   rest. 

When  mighty  sea-winds  madly  blow, 

And  tear  the  scattered  waves, 
Peaceful  as  summer  woods,  below 

Lie  darkling  ocean  caves : 
The  wind  of  words  may  toss  my  heart, 

But  what  is  that  to  me  ! 
'Tis  but  a  surface  storm  —  thou  art 

My  deep,  still,  resting  sea. 


O     DO    NOT   LEAVE   ME. 

O  DO  not  leave  me,  mother,  lest  I  weep  ; 

Till  I  forget,  be  near  me  in  that  chair. 
The  mother's  presence  leads  her  down  to  sleep  — 

Leaves  her  contented  there. 

O  do  not  leave  me,  lover,  brother,  friends. 
Till  I  am  dead,  and  resting  in  m}^  place. 

Love-compassed  thus,  the  girl  in  peace  ascends, 
And  leaves  a  raptured  face. 

Leave  me  not,  God,  until  —  nay,  until  when  ? 

Not  till  I  have  with  thee  one  heart,  one  mind  ; 
Not  till  the  Life  is  Light  in  me,  and  then 

Leaving  is  left  behind. 


BLESSED    ARE    THE    MEEK,    FOR    THEY 
SHALL    INHERIT   THE    EARTH. 

A  QUIET  heart,  submissive,  meek. 

Father,  do  thou  bestow, 
Which  more  than  granted  will  not  seek' 

To  have,  or  give,  or  know. 

Each  litde  hill  then  holds  its  gift 

Forth  to  my  joying  eyes  ; 
Each  mighty  mountain  will  uplift 

My  spirit  to  the  skies. 

Lo,  then  the  running  water  sounds 

With  gladsome,  secret  things  ! 
The  silent  water  more  abounds. 

And  more  the  hidden  springs. 

Sweet  murmurs  then  the  trees  will  send 
To  hold  the  birds  in  song  ; 


254  ORGAN   SONGS. 

The  waving  grass  its  tribute  lend 
Low  music  to  prolong. 

The  sun  will  cast  great  crowns  of  light 
On  waves  that  anthems  roar; 

The  dusky  billows  break  at  night 
In  flashes  on  the  shore. 

Yea,  every  lily's  shining  cup, 

The  hum  of  hidden  bee, 
The  odors  floating  mingled  up, 

With  insect  revelry,  — 

All  hues,  all  harmonies  divine. 

The  holy  earth  about. 
Their  souls  will  send  forth  into  mine, 

My  soul  to  widen  out. 

And  thus  the  great  earth  I  shall  hold, 

A  perfect  gift  of  thine  ; 
Richer  by  these,  a  thousandfold. 

Than  if  broad  lands  were  mine. 


HYMN    FOR  A   SICK    GIRL. 

Father,  in  the  dark  I  lay, 
Thirsting  for  the  h'ght  ; 

Helpless,  but  for  hope  alway 
In  thy  father-might. 

Out  of  darkness  came  the  morn, 
Out  of  death  came  life  ; 

I  and  faith  and  hope,  new-born, 
Out  of  moaning  strife. 

So,  one  morning  yet  more  fair, 

I,  alive  and  brave, 
Sudden  breathing  loftier  air, 

Triumph  o'er  the  grave.  -^ 

Though  this  feeble  body  lie 
Underneath  the  ground, 

AVide  awake,  not  sleeping,  I 
Shall  in  Him  be  found. 


256  ORGAN    SONGS. 

But  a  morn  yet  fairer  must 
Quell  this  inner  gloom  ; 

Resurrection  from  the  dust 
Of  a  deeper  tomb. 

Father,  wake  thy  little  child ; 

Give  me  bread  and  wine. 
Till  my  spirit  undefiled 

Rise  and  live  in  thine. 


A   CHRISTMAS    CAROL   FOR    1862. 

THE  YEAR  OF  THE  TROUBLE  IN  LANCASHIRE. 

The  skies  are   pale,  the  trees  are  stiff, 

The  earth  is  dull  and  old  ; 
The  frost  is  glittering  as  if 

The  very  sun  were  cold. 
And  hunger  fell  is  joined  with  frost, 

To  make  me  thin  and  wan  : 
Come,  babe,  from  heaven,  or  we  are  lost ; 

Be  born,  O  child  of  man. 

The  children  cry,  the  women  shake, 

The  strong  men  stare    about ; 
They  sleep  when  they  should  be   awake, 

They  wake  ere  night  is  out. 
For  they  have  lost  their  heritage  — 

No  sweat  is  on  their  brow  : 
Come,  babe,  and  bring  them  work  and  wage  ; 

Be  born,  and  save  us  now. 
17 


258  ORGAN   SONGS. 

Across  the  sea,  beyond  our  sight, 

Roars  on  the  fierce  debate  ; 
The  men  go  down  in  bloody  figlit, 

The  women  weep  and  hate. 
And  in  the  right  be  which  that  may, 

Surely  the  strife  is  long: 
Come,  Son  of   Man,  thy  righteous  way 

And  right  will  have  no  wrong. 

Good  men  speak  lies  against  thine  own, 

Tongue  quick,  and  hearing  slow; 
They  will  not  let  thee  walk  alone, 

And  think  to  serve  thee  so : 
If  they  the  children's  freedom  saw 

In  thee,  the  children's  king, 
They  would  be  still  with  holy  awe. 

Or  only  speak  to  sing. 

Some  neither  lie,  nor  starve,  nor  fight, 

Nor  yet  the  poor  deny  ; 
But  in  their  hearts  all  is  not  right,  — 

They  often  sit  and  sigh. 


A    CHRISTMAS    CAROL   FOR    1862.  259 

We  need  thee  every  day  and  hour, 

In  sunshine  and  in  snow  : 
Child  king,  we  pray  widi  all  our  power  — 

Be  born,  and  save  us  so. 

We  are  but  men  and  women,  Lord  ; 

Thou  art  a  gracious    child  ; 
O  fill  our  hearts,  and  heap  our  board. 

Of  grace,  this  winter  wild. 
And  though  the  trees  be  sad  and  bare, 

Hunger  and  hate  about. 
Come,  child,  and  ill  deeds  and  ill  fare 

Will  soon  be  driven  out. 


A   CHRISTMAS    CAROL. 

Babe  Jesus  lay  in  Mary's  lap  ;. 

The  sun  shone  on  his  hair ; 
And  this  was  how  she  saw,  mayhap, 

The  crown  already  there. 

For  she  sang :  "  Sleep  on,  my  little  king, 

Bad  Herod  dares  not  come  ; 
Before  thee  sleeping,  holy  thing, 

The  wild  winds  would  be  dumb. 

"I  kiss  thy  hands,  I  kiss  thy  feet. 

My  child,  so  long  desired  ; 
Thy  hands  shall  never  be  soiled,  my  sweet ; 

Thy  feet  shall  never  be  tired. 

"  For  thou  art  the  king  of  men,  my  son  ; 

Thy  crown  I  see  it  plain  ; 
And  men  shall  worship  thee,  every  one, 
And  cry.  Glory !  Amen." 


A   CHRISTMAS   CAROL.  261 

Babe  Jesus  opened  his  eyes  so  wide ! 

At  Mary  looked  her  Lord. 
And  Mary  stinted  her  song  and  sighed. 

Babe  Jesus  said  never  a  word. 


THE   SLEEPLESS    JESUS. 

'Tis  time  to  sleep,  my  little  boy ; 

Why  gaze  thy  bright  eyes  so  ? 
At  night  our  children^  for  new  joy, 

Home  to  thy  father  go. 
But  thou  are  wakeful.     Sleep,  my  child. 

The  moon  and  stars  are  gone  ; 
The  wind  is  up  and  raving  wild  ; 

But  thou  art  smiling  on. 

My  child,  thou  hast  immortal  eyes 

That  see  by  their  own  light ; 
They  see  the  children's  blood  —  it  lies 

Red-glowing  through  the  night. 
Thou  hast  an  ever  open  ear 

For  sob,  or  cry,  or  moan  : 
Thou  seemest  not  to  see  or  hear, 

Thou  only  smilest  on. 

When  first  thou  camest  to  the  earth, 
All  sounds  of  strife  were  still  ; 


THE   SLEEPLESS   JESUS.  263 

A  silence  lay  about  thy  birth, 

And  thou  didst  sleep  thy  fill. 
Thou  wakest  now  —  why  weep'st  thou  not } 

Thy  earth  is  woe-begone  ; 
Both  babes  and  mothers  wail  their  lot, 

But  still  thou  smilest  on. 

I  read  thy  face  like  holy  book  ; 

No  hurt  is  pictured  there  ; 
Deep  in  thine  eyes  I  see  the  look 

Of  one  who  answers  prayer. 
Beyond  pale  grief  and  wild  uproars, 

Thou  seest  God's  will  well  done ; 
Low  prayers,  through  chambers'  closed  doors, 

Thou  hear'st  —  and  smilest  on. 

Men  say :  "  I  will  arise  and  go.'' 

God  says:  "I  will  go  meet." 
Thou  seest  them  gather,  weeping  low, 

About  the  Father's  feet. 
And  all  must,  each  for  others,  bear. 

Till  all  are  homeward  gone. 
Answered,  O  eyes,  ye  see  all  prayer  : 

Smile,  Son  of  God,  smile  on. 


THE    CHILDREN'S    HEAVEN. 

The  infant  lies  in  blessed  ease 

Upon  his  mother's  breast ; 
No  storm,  no  dark,  the  baby  sees 

Invade  his  heaven  of  rest. 
He  nothing  knows  of  change  or  death  — 

Her  face  his  holy  skies  ; 
The  air  he  breathes  his  mother's  breath  ; 

His  stars,  his  mother's  eyes. 

Yet  half  the  sighs  that  wander  there 

Are  born  of  doubts  and  fears ; 
The  dew  slow  falling  through  that  air  — 

It  is  the  dew  of  tears. 
And  ah  !  my  child,  thy  heavenly  home 

Hath  rain  as  well  as    dew  ; 
Black  clouds  fill  sometimes  all   its  dome, 

And  quench  the  starry  blue. 


THE   CHILDREN'S   HEAVEN.  265 

Her  smile  would  win  no  smile  again, 

If  baby  saw  the  things 
That  ache  across  his  mother's  brain, 

The  while  she  sweetly  sings. 
Thy  faith  in  us  is  faith  in  vain  — 

We  are  not  what  we  seem. 
O  dreary  day,  O  cruel  pain. 

That  wakes  thee  from  thy  dream  ! 

No  ;  pity  not  his  dream  so  fair. 

Nor  fear  the  waking  grief; 
O,  safer  he  than  though  we  were 

Good  as  his  vague  belief! 
There  is  a  heaven  that  heaven  above. 

Whereon  he  gazes  now ; 
A  truer  love  than  in  thy  kiss ; 

A  better  friend  than  thou. 

The  Father's  arms  fold  like  a  nest 

His  children  round  about ; 
His  face  looks  down,  a  heaven  of  rest, 

Where  comes  no  dark,  no  doubt. 


266  ORGAN    SONGS. 

Its  mists  are  clouds  of  stars  that  move 

In  sweet  concurrent  strife  ; 
Its  winds,  tlie  goings  of  his  love  ; 

Its  dew,  the  dew  of  life. 

We  for  our  children  seek  thy  heart, 

For  them  the  Father's  eyes : 
Lord,  when  their  hopes  in  us  depart, 

Let  hopes  in  thee  arise. 
When  childhood's  visions  them  forsake, 

To  women  grown  and  men. 
Thou  to  thy  heart  their  hearts  wilt    take, 

And  bid  them  dream  ao^ain. 


REJOICE. 

"  Rejoice,"  said  the  Sun  ;  "  I  will  make  thee  gay 
With  glory  and   gladness  and  holiday  ; 
I  am  dumb,  O  man,  and  I  need  thy  voice." 
But  man. would  not  rejoice. 

"  Rejoice  in  thyse4f,"  said  he,  "  O  Sun, 
For  thy  daily  course  is  a  lordly  one  ; 
In  thy  lofty  place,  rejoice  if  thou  can  : 
For  me,  I  am  only  a  man." 

"Rejoice,"  said  the  Wind;    "I  am  free  and  strong; 
I  will  wake  in  thy  heart  an  ancient  song ; 
Hear  the  roaring  woods,  my  organ  noise  !  " 
But  man  would  not  rejoice. 

"  Rejoice,  O  Wind,  in  thy  strength,"  said  he, 
"  For  thou  fulfillest  thy  destiny ; 
Shake  the  forest,  the  faint  flowers  fan  : 
For  me,   I  am  only  a  man." 


268  ORGAN   SONGS. 

"  Rejoice,"    said   the    Night,    "  with  moon  and  star ; 

The  Sun  and  the  Wind  are  gone  afar ; 

I  am  here  with  rest  and  dreams  of  choice." 

But  man  would  not  rejoice. 

For  he  said,  —  "  What  is  rest  to  me,  I  pray, 
Whose  labor   brings  no  gladsome  day? 
He  only  should  dream  who  has  hope  behind. 
Alas  for  me  and  my  kind !  " 

Then  a  voice  that  came  not  from  moon  or  star, 
From  the  sun,  or  the  wind  roving  afar, 
Said,    "Man,  I  am  with  thee  —  hear  my  voice." 
And  man  said,  "I  rejoice." 


THE   GRACE    OF   GRACE. 

Had  I  the  grace  to  win  the  grace 
Of  some  old  man  in  lore  complete ; 

My  face  would  worship  at  his  face, 
And  I  sit  lowly  at  his  feet. 

Had  I  the  grace  to  win  the  grace 
Of  childhood,  loving  shy,  apart ; 

The  child  should  find  a  nearer  place, 
And  teach  me  resting  on  my  heart. 

Had  I  the  grace  to  win  the  grace 
Of  maiden  living  all  above ; 

My  soul  would  trample  down  the  base, 
That  she  might  have  a  man  to  love. 

A  grace  I  had  no  grace  to  win 

Knocks  now  at  my  half-open  door: 

Ah  !    Lord  of  glory,  come  thou  in  ; 
Thy  grace  divine  is  all,  and  more  ! 


ANSIPHONY. 

Daylight  fades  away. 

Is  the  Lord  at  hand, 
In  the  shadows  gray 

Stealing  on  the  land  ? 

Gently  from  the  east 

Come  the  shadows  gray  ; 

But  our  lowly  priest 
Nearer  is  than  they. 

It  is  darkness  quite. 

Is  the   Lord  at  hand, 
In  the   cloak   of  night 

Stolen  upon  the  land? 

But  I   see  no   night. 
For  my  Lord  is  here  ; 

With   Him  dark  is  light. 
With  Him   far  is  near. 


ANTIPHONY  271 

List !    the  cock  's   awake. 

Is  the  Lord  at  hand? 
Cometh  He  to  make 

Light  in  all  the   land  ? 

Long  ago   He   made 

Morning  in  my  heart ; 
Long  ago   He  bade 

Shadowy  things   depart. 

Lo,   the   dawning  hill ! 

Is  the   Lord   at  hand, 
Come  to  scatter  ill, 

Ruling  in   the    land  ? 

He  hath  scattered  ill, 

Ruling  in  my  mind. 
Growing  to  his  will, 

Freedom  comes,  I  find. 

We  will  watch  all  day, 

Lest  the  Lord  should  come ; 
All  night  waking  stay. 

In  the  darkness  dumb. 


2/2  ORGAN   SONGS. 

I  will  work  all  day, 

For  the  Lord  hath  come ; 

Down  my  head  will  lay, 
All  night  glad  and  dumb. 

For  we  know  not  when 
Christ  may  be  at  hand ; 

But  we  know  that  then 
Joy  is  in  the  land. 

For  I  know  that  where 
Christ  hath  come  again, 

Quietness  without  care 
Dwelleth  in  his  men. 


DORCAS. 

If  I  might  guess,  then  guess  I  would: 

Amid  the  gathered  folk, 
This  gentle  Dorcas  one  day  stood, 

And  heard  what  Jesus  spoke. 

She  saw  the  woven,  seamless  coat  — 

Half  envious  for  his  sake : 
"O,  happy  hands/'  she  said,   "that  wrought 

That  honored  thing  to  make  ! " 

Her  eyes  with  longing  tears  grow  dim 

She  never  can  come  nigh 
To  work  one  service  poor  for  Him 

For  whom  she  glad  would   die ! 

But  hark !  He  speaks  a  mighty  word  : 

She  hearkens  now  indeed  ! 
"When  did  we  see  thee  naked,  Lord, 

And  clothed  thee  in  thy  need.? 


2/4  ORGAN    SONGS. 

"  The  King  shall  answer,  Inasmuch 

As  to  my  brothers  ye 
Did  it —  even  to  the  least  of  such  — 

Ye  did  it  unto  me." 

Home,  home   she  went,  and  plied  the  loom 

And  Jesus'  poor   arrayed. 
She   died  —  they  wept  about  the   room. 

And  showed  the  coats   she  made. 


MARRIAGE   SONG. 

"They  have  no  more  wine,"  she   said. 
But  they  had  enough  of  bread  ; 
And  the  vessels  by  the  door 
Held  for  thirst  a  plenteous  store ; 
Yes,  enough;  but  Love  divine 
Turned  the  water  into  wine. 

When  should  wine  not  water  flow, 
But  when  home  two  glad  hearts  go, 
And  in  sacred  bondage  bound. 
Soul  in  soul  hath  freedom  found  ? 
Meetly  then,  a  holy  sign, 
Turns  the  water  into  wine. 

Good  is  all  the  feasting  then  ; 
Good  the  merry  words  of  men  ; 
Good  the  laughter  and  the  smiles  ; 
Good  the  wine  that  grief  beguiles  ;  — 


\^6  ORGAN    SONGS. 

Crowning  good,  the  Word  divine 
Turning  water  into  wine. 


Friends,  the  Master  with  you  dwell ; 

Daily  work  this  miracle ; 

When  fair  things  too  common  grow 

Wake  again  the  heavenly  show  ; 

Ever  at  your  table  dine, 

Turning  water  into  wine. 

So  at  last  you  shall  descry 
All  the  patterns  of  the  sky : 
Earth  a  heaven  of  short  abode  ; 
Houses  temples  unto  God ; 
Waterpots,  to  vision  fine, 
Brimming  full  of  heavenly  wine. 


BLIND    BARTIM^US. 

As  Jesus  went  into  Jericho  town, 
'Twas  darkness  all,  from  toe  to  crown, 

About  blind  Bartim^us. 
He  said,  "When  eyes  are  so  very  dim, 
They  are  no  use  for  seeing  Him ; 

No  matter  —  He  can  see  us.  ; 

"  Cry  out,  cry  out,  blind  brother  —  cry  ; 
Let  not  salvation  dear  go  by. 

Have  mercy,  Son  of  David." 
Though  they  were  blind,  they  both  could  hear, 
They  heard,  and  cried,  and  He  drew  near; 

And  so  the  blind  were  saved. 

O  Jesus  Christ,  I  am  very  blind  ; 
Nothing  comes  through  into  my  mind  ; 
'Tis  well  I  am  not  dumb: 


2/8  ORGAN   SONGS. 

Although  I  see  thee  not,  nor  hear, 
I  cry  because  thou  may'st  be  near : 
O  son  of  Mary,  come. 

I  hear  it  through  the  all  things  blind  : 
Is  it  thy  voice,  so  gentle  and  kind  — • 

"  Poor  eyes,  no  more  be  dim  "  ? 
A  hand  is  laid  upon  mine  eyes  ; 
I  hear,  and  hearken,  see,  and  rise  — 

'Tis  He:   I  follow  Him. 


COME   UNTO   ME. 

Come  unto  me,  the  Master  says. 

But  how  ?    I  am  not  good ; 
No  thankful  song  my  heart  will  raise, 

Nor  even  wish  it  could. 

I  am  not  sorry  for  the  past, 

Nor  able  not  to  sin  ; 
The  weary  strife  would  ever  last 

If  once  I  should  begin. 

Hast  thou  no  burden  then  to  bear? 

No  action  to  repent  ? 
Is  all  around  so  very  fair? 

Is  thy  heart  quite  content? 

Hast  thou  no  sickness  in  thy  soul  ? 
No  labor  to  endure  ? 


280  ORGAN   SONGS. 

Then  go  in  peace,  for  thou  art  whole ; 
Thou  needest  not  his  cure. 

Ah  !    mock  me  not.     Sometimes  I  sigh ; 

I  have  a  nameless  grief,  — 
A  faint  sad  pain,  —  but  such  that  I 

Can  look  for  no  relief. 

Come,  come  to  Him  who  made  thy  heart; 

Come  weary  and  oppressed ; 
To  come  to  Jesus  is  thy  part, 

His  part  to  give  thee  rest. 

New  grief,  new  hope   He  will  bestow, 
Thy  grief  and  pain  to  quell  ; 

Into  thy  heart  Himself  will  go, 
And  that  will  make  thee  well. 


MORNING    HYMN. 

0  Lord  of  life,  thy  quickening  voice 
Awakes  my  morning  song"; 

In  gladsome  words  I  would  rejoice 
That  I  to  thee  belong. 

1  see  thy  light,  I  feel  thy  wind  ; 
Earth  is  thy  uttered  word  ; 

Whatever  wakes  my  heart  and  mind, 
Thy  presence  is,  my  Lord. 

The  living  soul  which  I  call  me 
Doth  love,  and  long  to  know  ; 

It  is  a  thought  of  living  thee. 
Nor  forth  of  thee   can  go. 

Therefore  I  choose  my  highest  part, 
And  turn  my  face  to  thee  ; 


282  ORGAN   SONGS. 

Therefore  I  stir  my  inmost  heart 
To  worship  fervently. 

Lord,  let  me  live  and  act  this  day, 

Still  rising  from  the  dead  ; 
Lord,  make  my  spirit  good  and  gay,  — 

Give  me  my  daily  bread. 

Within  my  heart,  speak,  Lord,  speak  on, 

My  heart  alive  to  keep, 
Till  the  night  comes,  and,  labor   done, 

In  thee  I  fall  asleep. 


NOONTIDE. 

I  LOVE  thy  skies,  thy  sunny  mists, 

Thy  fields,  thy  mountains  hoar, 
Thy  wind  that  bloweth  where  it  Hsts,  — 

Thy  will,  I  love  it  more. 

I  love  thy  hidden  truth  to  seek 

All  round_,  in  sea,  on  shore ; 
The  arts  whereby  like  gods  we  speak,  — 

Thy  will  to  me  is  more. 

I  love  thy  men  and  women,  Lord, 

The  children  round  thy  door  ; 
Calm  thoughts  that  inward  strength  afford,  — 

Thy  will,  O  Lord,  is  more. 

But  when  thy  will  my  life  shall  hold 

Thine  to  the  very  core, 
The  world,  which  that  same  will  did  mould, 

I  shall  love  ten  times  more. 


EVENING  HYMN. 

O  God,  whose  daylight  leadeth  down 

Into  the  sunless  way, 
Who  with  restoring  sleep  dost  crown 

The  labor  of  the  day ! 

What  I  have  done.  Lord,  make  it  clean 

With  thy  forgiveness  dear  ; 
That  so  to-day  what  might  have  been, 

To-morrow  may  appear. 

And  when  my  thought  is  all  astray, 

Yet  think  thou  on  in  me  ; 
That  with  the  new-born  innocent  day 

My  soul  rise  fresh  and  free. 

Nor  let  me  wander  all  in  vain 

Through  dreams  that  mock  and  flee  ; 

But  even  in  visions  of  the  brain, 
Go  wandering  towards  thee. 


THE  HOLY  MIDNIGHT. 

Ah,  holy  midnight  of  the  soul, 
When  stars  alone  are  high; 

When  winds  are  resting  at  their  goal, 
And  sea-waves  only  sigh ! 

Ambition  faints  from  out  the  will ; 

Asleep  sad  longing  lies  ; 
All  hope  of  good,  all  fear  of  ill, 

All  need  of  action  dies ; 

Because  God  is  ;  and  claims  the  life 

He  kindled  in  thy  brain  ; 
And  thou  in  Him,  rapt  far  from  strife, 

Diest  and  liv'st  again. 


^ 


14  DAY  USE 

RBTURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 
Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  iirior  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


J  ^.'^ti 


^'mri  omi^'^ 


^^^  ms  >7,. 


1  3  197h  C  K 


5PM4  9 


REG.  dIR,     JUN    ^'76 


mzm  FEB  2  8  1986 


LD21  A-40m.3,'72  r  TniS^ti^frLuSr^,-, 

(Qll73Sl0)476^A-32  ^*"^^"g^^^ei^°""* 


""™' "»»««'  MmKEur 


